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As her birthday present Caithlin had a mechanical toy fish, which she at first wached with a bit scepticism. It was definitely not edible, but maybe a bit dangerous, when it wriggles...
Dushara Cathal Caithlin (Somali cat), 04.12.2022.
Olympus OMD EM5 Digital Camera
from Nelli, looking at the New Year with a mixture of eager anticipation and some (probably justified) scepticism ...
Welcome 2022!
It has been four, really long weeks that I have been sequestered to the house. I have developed a good routine though - I go from my bed, to the couch that is immersed in the healing warmth of the sun, and then onto the chair in front of the fire, then back to bed again.
The dogs watch me with a mix of scepticism, disbelief, and perhaps even a bit of sympathy. Their leashes lay dormant.
It won't be long before we will be out enjoying our coveted walks again. In the meantime, I can relive the many wonderful, rich memories through the photos I have taken in the past.
This is one of them.
Eyebrows don't lie: Scepticism
Rue de Vaugirard at Square Adolphe et Jean Chérioux (15e)
Paris, France 16.02.2023
The Butterfly House is always a sanctuary to me especially in chilly and foggy weather such as yesterday's. I noted that our Lacewing must be on the very verge of death. It fluttered a bit, lower and lower, and finally crept about on the concrete floor, unsure where it was going, not afraid of approaching Olymp.
The scientific name 'Cethosia' derives, according to famous biologist Louis Agassiz (1807-1873), Nomenclator Zoologicus, from a Greek word for 'mourning': "κῆδος, luctus, kêdos = lutto". I'm not entirely convinced he's correct because mostly Butterflies are named for the heroes and heroines of Classical Antiquity. Anyway, these Lacewings often have a 'funereal' look - regard here that quite black fringe. So perhaps my slight scepticism is out of place.
My last post for a few days I am having a small break to do very little.
I think this was the first photograph I took when I arrived in Tromso last December. It’s only an electrical shop but it did look so pretty in the permanent gloom of the Arctic winter. I knew as I took it that it would serve well as a Christmas card…so that’s what it is.
For those of you who celebrate Christmas have a wonderful one. For those who celebrate anything else I hope you enjoy it. Finally for those of you who like me just let the Christmas thing drift by us enjoy the drifting. I intend to do some walking and reread the excellent quartet of novels by Richard Ford about the life and times of Frank Bascombe. I like this character a lot he has a good heart and a healthy amount of scepticism useful qualities these days.
I shall be off Flickr for a few days but will catch up with you all before the New Year arrives. So whatever you do, have a good one.
PS it’s the winter solstice so at least the light starts to return
THANKS FOR YOUR VISIT AND FOR TAKING THE TIME TO WRITE A COMMENT IT’S MUCH APPRECIATED.
IF YOU WANT TO FOLLOW MY STREAM I SUGGEST YOU OUGHT TO READ MY PROFILE FIRST
“What of Art?
-It is a malady.
--Love?
-An Illusion.
--Religion?
-The fashionable substitute for Belief.
--You are a sceptic.
-Never! Scepticism is the beginning of Faith.
--What are you?
-To define is to limit.”
― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
seen in Goslar/ Harz in the morning, when all Europeans were ordered to return to their home, churches were closed and hospitals were full.
To believe on kismet, karma,fate, god's will or devil's revenge allow to live a somnambulic life. Science, scepticism, principle of scientific falsification, public control of scientific findings, democratic separation of powers are relevant to give next generations a chance to live in dignity.
1.
uncertainty about what is happening, intended, or required.
"there seems to be some confusion about which system does what"
synonyms:uncertainty, lack of certainty, unsureness, indecision, hesitation, hesitancy, scepticism, doubt, ignorance,a situation of panic or disorder.
2.
the state of being bewildered or unclear in one's mind about something.
Entered in
"AWESOME ABSTRACTS" - SOTN
www.flickr.com/groups/1344849@N25/discuss/721576797139244...
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are at Rippon Court, the ancient sprawling Baronial style* house and family seat of Sir John Nettleword Hughes, buried deep within his vast estate of Rippon in Bedforshire. Old enough to be Lettice’s father, wealthy Sir John was until recently still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intended to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. After an abrupt ending to her understanding with Selwyn Spencely, son and heir to the title Duke of Walmsford, Lettice in a moment of both weakness and resolve, agreed to the proposal of marriage proffered to her by Sir John. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them.
Lettice, her fiancée, Sir John, and his sister Clemance have motored over from Lettice’s family home of Glynes in Wiltshire, cutting their Christmas holiday with Lettice’s family short, to host the Rippon Hunt. Being a keen hunter, His Royal Highness, Prince Edward, the Prince of Wales has sent word to Sir John that he and a party of his equally enthusiastic foxhunting friends wish to participate in the Rippon Hunt, so Sir John has cut short his sojourn to Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, near to his fiancée’s family seat and has reluctantly returned to his sprawling, draughty and slightly tumbledown, dreaded childhood home to host the Prince. The Prince has also expressed his particular wish to reacquaint himself with Lettice, now that she is Sir John’s fiancée, so she is playing hostess to His Royal Highness, and as the future Lady Nettleford Hughes, has been bestowed the honour of handing out trophies to the winners. Clemance is attending as chaperone.
Today is the day of the Rippon Hunt, and all the participants, including the Prince of Wales and his current paramour, married socialite Freda Dudley-Ward**, have set out after Sir John and Lettice came out onto Rippon Court’s grassy forecourt and socialised with the mounted hunters. With the hunting party already mounted as they waited to set off on the hunt, Sir John and Lettice shared port and sherry with them, served by Rippon Court’s butler, Huntley, and several of the estate’s housemaids in Sir John’s father’s sterling silver stirrup cups*** so that they did not have to dismount. Lettice and Sir John shared pleasantries and titbits of county gossip with their guests, Sir John accepting congratulations and Lettice happiness**** at their impending nuptials*****. Lettice and Sir John wished them luck, even though neither enjoy the bloodsport****** of foxhunting, and Sir John gladly relinquished his hereditary right to be Master of the Hunt******* as owner of Rippon Court and the land on which the Rippon Hunt was conducted, to the current owner of nearby Wrest Park********, Mr. J.G. Murray*********.
We find ourselves on the front lawns of Rippon Court as heavy ancient oak front doors are opened by Huntley, their hinges creaking loudly in protestation as they are swung wide.
“Well, it looks like it has been nice weather for His Royal Highness at least,” Sir John says stepping out into the bright early afternoon sunshine with Lettice on his arm.
As she decreed at dinner on their first evening at Rippon Court, Lettice is arrayed in her uniform country tweeds**********, yet she had added her own distinctive style and elegance to the outfit by wearing a brightly hand painted Florentine silk scarf around her throat, a diamond spray belonging to Sir Johns grandmother on her lapel, and a neat hat atop her glossy honey blonde Marcelled waves***********. Her snakeskin handbag swings on its gold chain as it hangs at the crook of her arm.
“Indeed yes.” Lettice agrees. What a pity!”
“A pity?” Sir John queries.
“Yes,” Lettice answers. “Today would have been perfect for a steeplechase************, rather than a ghastly foxhunt.”
Sir John chuckles as they walk forwards on the gravel path before them. “You might have enjoyed a steeplechase, but His Royal Highness obviously prefers a hunt today.” He pauses. “And we all know that whatever His Royal Highness wants, his Royal Highness gets.” He looks knowingly down at Lettice with a wicked glint in his bright blue eyes. “Like Freda Dudley-Ward************* for example.”
Ignoring her fiancée’s alluding to the womanizing similarities that he shares with the Prince of Wales, Lettice replies, “His Royal Highness enjoys steeplechasing as well**************, you know, dear John, and as an excellent rider, I would have given him a challenge, and probably beaten him.”
“Such brave words, Lettice my dear.” Sir John says patting Lettice’s hand consolingly as they walk towards a green baize covered table on the lawns where several of Rippon Court’s maids are currently clustered.
“I’m an excellent rider, John, even if you aren’t.” Lettice insists.
“I don’t doubt it my dear, but for that very reason, I’m glad that the Prince wanted to go on a foxhunt today, even if I don’t care for it myself. The last thing I need is for my fiancée to best the future King of England at a sport he prides himself in being a champion of. There is such a thing as deference, even for the likes of you and I, my dear.”
“I see your point.” Lettice admits reluctantly.
It is then that Lettice notices several of the gardener’s boys with birchwood brooms sweeping the lawns around the house of the light dusting of snow that has fallen overnight.
“What are Mr. Grimsby’s men doing, John?”
“What does it look like, Lettice? Sweeping the snow off the lawns, of course.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Lettice replies a little peevishly. “But why are they sweeping the lawns of snow? The Times Daily Weather Report*************** this morning says we’re due for snow again, later today, although looking at the blue skies and sunshine now, I find that hard to believe. Still, it seems a fairly pointless job for the lads to do when we know more flurries are forecast.”
“Well, however much I dislike Rippon Court, I’d prefer to save the maids extra cleaning to do. Our guests from the hunting party will be filthy enough after riding across hill and dale when they get back here. So, if I can avoid them trudging in even more dirty snow into Rippon Court, I’m sure Mrs. Mason and her staff will appreciate it. Besides, don’t you remember what I said up in the Book Tower the other day, Lettice my dear?”
Lettice screws up her face in disbelief. “You said a great many things, John. You cannot surely expect me to remember them all.”
“I don’t, but close attention paid to important matters about the estate won’t do the future chatelaine of Rippon Court any harm.”
“Well, I shall try to pay closer attention to important estate matters in the future, John.” Lettice says apologetically. “But since I failed that test, please enlighten me.”
“I said that the Rippon Estate is one of the biggest employers in these parts, especially with Wimpole House**************** shut up so much these days*****************, and Mr. Murray running Wrest Park with a staff budget more suited to his middle-class Thirsk townhouse than that which a great park needs. I take that responsibility seriously. Ahh…” He unlinks his arm from Lettice as he spies his chief groundsman and walks up to him with Lettice following in his wake. “Mr. Grimsby. How are you?”
The groundsman who quickly withdraws his tweed workman’s cap from his head and clutches it in his hands answers brightly, “Very well, Milord. Thank you for asking.”
“You and your staff seem to be doing a beautiful job with the gardens.” Sir John continues.
“Ahh, they’re a good bunch, my lads.” Mr, Grimsby says with pride. “Work hard, and don’t put up no nonsense. Good afternoon, Milady.” the gardener says, acknowledging Lettice as she sidles up alongside Sir John. “It’s good of you to come.”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure to visit Rippon Court, Grimsby, and to meet you.”
“Likewise, I’m sure, Milady.” the servant bobs his head down momentarily in a sign of deference.
“We were just admiring the hard work your staff are doing sweeping the snow from the lawns,” Lettice goes on. “Although it must be tedious work for them.”
“Ahh, I wouldn’t say that, Milady, more calming than tedious.” He chuckles good naturedly. “It gives them time to clear their heads, and just be at one with their work. Anyway, the lads have to learn their trade doing the less exciting jobs before they can go scaling trees to cut dead branches.”
“Where’s your son, Mr. Grimsby?” Sir John asks, scanning the figures of several of the men bent over their work with their backs to him.
“Oh, right there, Sir.” Mr. Grimsby answers, pointing to a broad-shouldered young man in a cap with rolled up shirtsleeves nearby.
“Good heavens!” Sir John exclaims. “Is that really your Erroll? “
“It is, Sir.” Mr. Grimsby says proudly.
“But he’s so grown up and bulked now.”
“Well,” Mrs. Grimsby says, shaking his head. “Time waits for no man, Sir, and you’ve been gone a while now. He’s not a boy anymore, but a young man, and old enough to have a sweetheart.”
“One of Mrs. Mason’s housemaids, or Mrs. Tabner’s kitchen maid?”
“Oh no, Sir! They’s all far too hoity-toity, being part of the indoor staff and with their noses stuck in the air, to ever give my Erroll a second glance. His hands are too dirty, Sir, if you know what I mean, Sir, for the likes of them.” He sniffs disparagingly as he nods at the maids in their formal black moiré uniforms with lace caps, cuffs and aprons, usually reserved for evenings, but also worn on special occasions like the visit of a member of the Royal Family.
“Nothing wrong with good, honest toil, Grimsby.” Sir John opines, patting his head gardener on the back.
“I agree, Sir, but they think otherwise. So, he’s got himself a sweetheart better suited to him, who don’t look down on him: one of the milkmaids from the home farm******************, if it pleases you, Sir.”
“Jolly good, Grimsby.” Sir John beams. “Well, I really must congratulate him after His Royal Highness’ visit, before we leave.”
“He’d appreciate that, Sir.”
“I’ll pop in to visit him, Mrs. Grimsby and you at the cottage before we take our leave.”
“That’s very good of you, Sir.” Mr. Grimsby replies in admiration.
“I’ll come too, Mr. Grimsby.” Lettice pipes up. “If you’ll have me.”
“It’d be an honour, Milady, to have such fine and exalted company in our humble parlour. Mrs. Grimsby will be rightly chuffed, and no mistake!”
As Mr. Grimsby backs away, and falls out of earshot, Sir John says, “That was very good of you, Lettice. The staff are all so thrilled to meet their new future mistress.” Sir John links his arm with Lettice again, and directs her over towards the cluster of maids around the table.
Lettice remarks as they walk, “You amaze me, dear John.”
“How so?”
“Well, you admit that you seldom come to Rippon Court, and then only under sufferance, and yet, you know all your staff here so well, it’s as though you are here frequently. I don’t think, since moving up to London, that I know the staff at Glynes half as well as you do the staff here, and they obviously admire and respect you, even though you are seldom here.”
“As their employer, I make it my business to keep up with what goes on here, and my Estate Manager Mr. Sutton is the real genius behind this operation, keeping me abreast of all the comings, goings and happenings on the estate. It’s the difference between being an absent landlord who is disinterested, and thus is despised by his staff and treated with suspicion and contempt, like Lord Robartes*******************, and an absent landlord who has genuine interest in his tenants and employees, like me.”
“It’s worked very successfully in your favour, John.” Lettice remarks with admiration.
The pair approach the green baize covered table where Mrs. Mason and three of her housemaids have been gossiping and twittering like birds as they work, but their cheerful chatter ceases with the approach of their master and future mistress.
“Your Lordship. Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs, Mason and her staff politely greet Sir John and Lettice, dropping polite curtseys and lowering their gazes.
For the first time, Lettice can see what they were so industriously doing in their cluster. On the table’s surface stand two ornate lidded silver trophies – one large and one small – a punch bowl and three horse trophies, all gleaming in the early afternoon sun. The maids all hold cleaning cloths that show marks where they have polished away tarnish on the silverware.
“Thank you, Mrs. Mason, that will be all.” Sir John says dismissing his domestics politely. “You’ve all done a splendid job polishing the silver.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Mrs, Mason replies as she shoos and corrals her girls back towards Rippon Court.
“So, these are the trophies that you will award to the winners, Lettice my dear.” Sir John says kindly with a sweeping gesture over the pieces.
“I wasn’t aware we were presenting trophies, John darling.”
Sir John chortles. “Surely you jest, Lettice. How can we host the Prince, and not award trophies? Now, the large one,” he winds his elegant hand with its long fingers around the finial of the largest trophy. “You will present to His Royal Highness.”
“If he wins.” Lettice interjects. “We don’t know who the winner of the foxhunt is yet.”
“Of course we know, Lettice my dear.” Sir John replies breezily. “It will be the Prince. He is a keen and active sportsman who doesn’t appreciate losing. There can be no other plausible outcome.”
“But that isn’t right, if someone else genuinely beats him, John.”
“This isn’t a best in show, Lettice.” Sir John insists seriously. “You will present the largest trophy to His Royal Highness out of deference to him.”
“Deference I am not unhappy with,” Lettice retorts hotly. “But forgive me for saying, John, but this seems far more like toadying to me.”
“Call it what you will, my dear,” Sir John replies dismissively with arched eyebrows and a sour purse of his thin lips. “But whether you like it or not, one day His Royal Highness will be our King. As a Member of Parliament, and a successful businessman, I need the Prince’s favourable opinion now, so that it furthers my own interests in both politics and business once he becomes our Sovereign.”
“But I…” Lettice stammers.
Sir John sighs deeply. “What did I remark upon about the Prince before, Lettice my dear?”
Determined not be caught not paying full attention to what her fiancée said again, and perhaps earning his ire, Lettice thinks quickly. “What His Royal Highness wants, His Royal Highness gets.” she parrots.
“Exactly!” Sir John replies with a satisfied sigh and a proud smile. “That’s my clever girl.” He reaches out and tweaks her on the left cheek, a gesture she finds belittling and dislikes so intensely that she moves her head away from his hand with irritation. Seemingly unperturbed by her reaction, Sir John goes on seriously, “You will present His Royal Highness with the large trophy. The smaller trophy may go to whomever Mr. Fitzwilliam, the Master of the Hounds******************** tells you is the official winner of the hunt.”
“And if perchance His Royal Highness legitimately wins the hunt?”
“The second-place winner.”
“Very good.”
“The punch bowl you present after the small horse trophies the recipients of which and reasons as to why they receive them you will be told by Mr. Fitzwilliam as well.” He pauses for a moment and thinks. “Be prepared, Lettice my dear, that they are more than likely to be all in the Prince’s coterie.”
Lettice sighs and nods. “I understand. And who is the punchbowl for?”
“Mr. Murphy, for being Master of the Hunt. Being a businessman, he will expect a quid pro quo for his help with today’s hunt, since I clearly have no aptitude for it, nor wish to participate in it.”
“I take it the roses,” Lettice indicates to a bunch of beautiful, full red roses resting on the table’s surface as she places her handbag next to them. “Are for Mrs. Dudley-Ward?”
“How perceptive you are, my dear Lettice.” Sir John purrs. “You will make an admirable chatelain of Rippon Court. I always knew you were far more intelligent than all those flibbertigibbet********************* flappers that cloy around me like a swarm of annoying insects at the theatre and parties and balls. The more I come to know you, the more I know I have made the right decision by proposing marriage to you. We will make an excellent team, you and I.”
And so saying he winds his arm around Lettice and pulls her closer to him, a gesture she struggles not to react to by pulling away from him in the opposite direction. Just as he does, the sound of horns blasting and hounds barking down the driveway behind a coppice of cedars, can be heard, along with cheerful and voluble conversations.
“Ahh! Perfect timing!” Sir John says with satisfaction. “Here comes the victorious hunting party now.”
*Baronial style, primarily Scottish Baronial, is a Nineteenth Century Gothic Revival architectural style mimicking medieval Scottish castles, featuring crow-stepped gables, conical towers (tourelles/witches\' hats), battlements, and turrets, creating a romantic, fortified look with asymmetrical plans and heavy stonework, heavily popularized by Sir Walter Scott\'s Abbotsford. It blends Scottish vernacular with French and Gothic elements, evolving from fortified tower houses into grand country homes and public buildings.
**Winifred May Mones, Marquesa de Casa Maury, commonly known by her first married name as Freda Dudley Ward, was an English socialite. She was best known for being a married paramour of Edward, Prince of Wales, who later became Edward VIII. She was twice married and divorced. Her first marriage was on 9 July 1913 to William Dudley Ward, the Liberal MP for Southampton. Her first husband\'s family surname was Ward, but \'Dudley Ward\' became their surname through common usage. They divorced on the ground of adultery in 1931 and were the parents of two daughters. Although married in 1913 to William Dudley Ward, Freda was also in a relationship with Edward, Prince of Wales from 1918, until she was supplanted by American Thelma Furness from 1929 to 1934 before he then took up with Wallis Simpson, whom he eventually married and abdicated for.
***A stirrup cup is a special drinking vessel, often shaped like an animal\'s head (fox, hound, stag), used historically for a parting drink of fortified wine like port, or sherry, offered to mounted horsemen before a fox hunt, or as a farewell drink as they set off or returned, hence also called a "parting cup". The term can also refer to the drink itself, traditionally consumed in one quick gulp with feet still in the stirrups.
****In more socially conscious times it was traditional to wish the bride-to-be happiness, rather than saying congratulations as we do today. Saying congratulations to a bride in past times would have implied that she had won something – her groom. The groom on the other hand was to be congratulated for getting the lady to accept his marriage proposal.
*****Nuptials is an alternative word for marriage. The term “nuptials” emphasizes the ceremonial and legal aspects of a marriage, lending a more formal tone to wedding communications and documentation.
******Bloodsports are sports or entertainment involving bloodshed, pain, and suffering, typically between animals or humans, like cockfighting, dog fighting, bullfighting, and often including certain types of hunting (like fox hunting or hare coursing) where killing or severe harm is integral to the "sport". These activities are often illegal and controversial today, focusing on violent combat for gambling or amusement, rather than traditional, regulated field sports like normal hunting or fishing. However, in the Victorian and Edwardian eras, fox hunting, grouse shooting and hare coursing were not only commonplace amongst the aristocracy, but a standard part of the London Season, with wealthy families decamping London and retreating to country estates before Christmas to pursue the hunting season and the county balls that went with them throughout January and February.
*******In the 1920s, a Master of the Hunt was the individual with ultimate authority over the management and conduct of a fox hunting club and its activities. The role involved significant financial and organisational responsibility.
********Wrest Park is a country estate located in Silsoe, Bedfordshire. It comprises Wrest Park, a Grade I listed country house, and Wrest Park Gardens, also Grade I listed, formal gardens surrounding the mansion.
*********In 1917, with her brother dead and Wrest House house having suffered a fire when used as a Military Hospital during the Great War, Nan Ino Cooper, 10th Baroness Lucas of Crudwell and 6th Lady Dingwall put Wrest Park up for sale by auction after selling off most of the contents. John George Murray of Thirsk in North Yorkshire bought it. He had been born in 1864 in Consett, Durham, son of Richard Murray JP of Benfieldside, Durham. He married Isabella, daughter of William Charleton in 1892. He became president of Bedfordshire Chamber of Agriculture in 1921 and 1922, and was High Sheriff of the county in 1923. He was essentially a businessman, being Chairman of Associated Breweries Limited, of North Eastern Breweries Limited, of Seaton Burn Coal Company Limited, of North Walbottle Coal Company Limited and of the Owners of Redheugh Colliery Limited. However he also enjoyed county pursuits, including hunting.
**********Both men and women wore tweed in the countryside during Edwardian times because of its warmth, durability, and water resistance, making it ideal for outdoor pursuits like hunting, shooting, and cycling, while also signalling association with the elite who popularised it for sporting activities on country estates, with styles like the Norfolk jacket and plus-fours being common for active gentlemen. Originally worn by Scottish peasants, tweed was adopted by the aristocracy for their country estates and sporting pastimes, making it a fashionable symbol of leisure and status for the middle and upper classes.
***********Marcelling is a hair styling technique in which hot curling tongs are used to induce a curl into the hair. Its appearance was similar to that of a finger wave but it is created using a different method. Marcelled hair was a popular style for women\'s hair in the 1920s, often in conjunction with a bob cut. For those women who had longer hair, it was common to tie the hair at the nape of the neck and pin it above the ear with a stylish hair pin or flower. One famous wearer was American entertainer, Josephine Baker.
************A steeplechase is a long-distance race involving both galloping and jumping over obstacles, primarily fences and water jumps. In horse racing, steeplechases involve horses jumping over various obstacles like fences and ditches.
*************Freda Dudley-Ward was the Prince of Wales\'s paramour for many years, with their affair beginning in the early 1920s. Their relationship was not a secret; it was openly acknowledged by their social circles, families, and the public. His parents the King George V and Queen Mary were concerned about the Prince of Wales\'s affair with Freda Dudley-Ward, as it was a public relationship that threatened to cause scandal and damage his reputation, especially given the expectation that he would marry a foreign royal. They disapproved of the affair, viewing it as a public scandal and hoping the situation could be managed and kept out of the papers to protect the monarchy and the future king. It was a source of considerable tension between father and son. The constant disapproval from his father contributed to Edward\'s already existing resentment and hatred for his royal role and the constraints it placed upon him.
**************During the 1920s the Prince of Wales, later Edward VIII and Duke of Windsor, was ranked among the most daring horsemen in England. Having forged an impressive reputation in the hunting field for courage, determination and skill, he moved on to steeplechasing furthering the indignation of George V and Queen Mary who urged their son to abandon the dangerous sport. Unheeded Edward broke his collar bone, blacked his eyes and suffered concussion with what seemed to be alarming regularity. The Prince’s addiction to his hazardous hobby even caused the Prime Minister Ramsay Macdonald to request discontinuance. The prince stubbornly refused. Only after the near fatal illness of the King in 1928, did the he finally renounce the sport and order the sale of his entire stud.
***************The first daily weather forecasts in UK newspapers were published in The Times on August 1, 1861, by the Meteorological Department of the Board of Trade, the forerunner of the modern Met Office. The Times began publishing daily meteorological reports in September 1860, which provided observational data (temperature, air pressure, rainfall) from around the British Isles, but did not yet include predictions. The first official, government-sanctioned weather "forecasts" (a term coined by the department\'s head, Vice-Admiral Robert FitzRoy) were published daily in The Times and syndicated in other newspapers as of August 1861. These reports predicted the probable weather for the next two days. Following FitzRoy\'s death in May 1866 and a period of scientific scepticism and political debate about their accuracy and cost, the publication of public forecasts ceased temporarily. However public weather forecasts and the Daily Weather Report were officially reintroduced and resumed publication in newspapers due to public demand in April 1879.
****************Wimpole Estate is a large estate containing Wimpole Hall, a country house located within the civil parish of Wimpole, Cambridgeshire, nine miles southwest of Cambridge. The house began in 1640 and its 3,000 acres of parkland and farmland are now owned by the National Trust. However, in 1926, when this chapter is set, it was owned by Thomas Charles Agar-Robartes, the 6th Viscount Clifden. The Wimpole Estate is the only visitor attraction in the National Trust portfolio that has a working farm, Home Farm, which is one of the largest centres for rare breeds in the UK.
*****************Under the ownership of Lord Robartes, the 6th Viscount Clifden, the grand Wimpole Estate fell into further decay after the neglect of its previous owner, Charles Philip Yorke, 5th Earl of Hardwicke, who was an inveterate gambler who amassed huge debts. Also owning Lanhydrock, a magnificent late Victorian country house with garden and wooded estate in Bodmin, Cornwall, the maintenance on both properties proved to be expensive for Lord Robartes, who only owned Wimpole Hall as a result of payment of debts accrued by the 5th Earl of Hardwicke against the Agar-Robartes Bank, and he was forced to retrench, moving permanently to Lanhydrock. He tried, unsuccessfully for the most part, to lease Wimpole Hall out. By the mid 1920s when this story is set, Wimpole Hall, lacking mains electricity and with primitive drainage and water supply, was only occupied occasionally, usually for game shooting, racing at Newmarket or cricket in front of the house.
******************A home farm is traditionally a farm on a large estate, located near the main house, that directly supplies the household with food and supplies, often run by the landowner or a manager, rather than rented to tenants, while today the term also refers to small lifestyle properties or even modern indoor growing systems for personal use.
*******************Thomas Charles Agar-Robartes, 6th Viscount Clifden (1 January 1844 – 19 July 1930), styled The Honourable Thomas Agar-Robartes between 1869 and 1882 and known as The Lord Robartes from 1882 to 1899, was a British landowner and Liberal politician. In 1891, as chairman of the Agar-Robartes Bank, he took over the ownership of Wimpole Hall in Cambridgeshire from Charles Yorke, 5th Earl of Hardwicke in payment of debts. After a few years, it was occasionally leased out, but with poor amenities, and the general disrepair of the house, he seldom spent much time there.
********************The Master of the Hounds was in charge of the hunt and supervised the field, hounds, and staff. The huntsman, who had bred the hounds and worked with them, would be in charge of the pack during the hunt. Once the group was assembled, the huntsman would lead the pack of hounds and field to where a fox might be hiding.
*********************The word "flibbertigibbet" originated in Middle English (before 1450) as an onomatopoeic term like fleper-gebet, meaning a chatterer or gossip, with its earliest known use in The Castle of Perseverance. It evolved to name a devil or imp in the early 1600s, notably in Shakespeare\'s King Lear, before becoming the familiar term for a flighty person, a meaning popularised by Sir Walter Scott in the Nineteenth Century.
Beautiful as they may be, this selection of trophies may not be all it seems, for it is in fact made up of miniatures from my 1:12 miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The large and medium sized lidded trophies and the punch bowl were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The three tiny horses also come from my friend Kim (BKHagar *Kim*) and were sent to me last Christmas as a present.
Lettice’s snakeskin handbag lying on the chaise, with its gold clasp and chain comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom.
The red roses are hand made miniatures from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.
The collapsable card table with its green baize surface is a handmade artisan miniature by an unknown maker that I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House shop in the United Kingdom.
The grass and trees in the background standing in as the Rippon Estate are real, as this scene was photographed in my front garden during the height of summer, on a partially sunny day.
This road of grace is not always easy to discover. When you are really at peace, listening to the heart is not difficult. But there are also moments of weariness and emptiness, of scepticism and almost of despair, when it takes courage to enter the barren landscape of one’s soul. The bitterness of existence can hit you in all sorts of ways. Don’t be too surprised when such shadows come. They will not last. They are never the whole story. Dawn will come after every darkness. And that emergence into light is one of the signs of the Spirit at work. It is more than ‘natural’. It is a healing liberation that comes from the artistry of God within us. In countless ways you experience God even though you may not realise it.
-FAITH MAPS Ten religious explorers from Newman to Joseph Ratzinger Michael Paul Gallagher SJ, chapter 3:
Karl Rahner: the magnetism of mystery
Enlightenment Also known as "The Age of Reason".
It was thought during the Enlightenment that human reasoning could discover truths about the world, religion, and politics and could be used to improve the lives of humankind. Scepticism about received wisdom was another important idea; everything was to be subjected to testing and rational analysis.
Nothing rational about Glastonbury.
Glastonbury, Somerset, UK.
I visited Battersea to experience the newly opened £9bn Power Station redevelopment. The architecture is awe-inspiring, especially the Frank Gehry-designed apartments. The Power station has been beautifully restored, with lots of lovely steel and brickwork on display.
Has the development tempered my initial scepticism? Unfortunately, no. Firstly only 9% of the housing is affordable, 40% less than initially planned. The usage of the Power Station is pretty uninspiring, lacking any real imagination or cultural value. Despite looking impressive, it's pretty much a glorified shopping centre at its heart, a weird hybrid between Westfield and the Coal Drop Yards.
Lilleshall Abbey , Shropshire, England
Lilleshall Abbey Coordinates... 52°43′29″N 2°23′23″W
Lilleshall Abbey was an Augustinian abbey in Shropshire, England, today located 6 miles (9.7 km) north of Telford. It was founded between 1145 and 1148 and followed the austere customs and observance of the Abbey of Arrouaise in northern France. It suffered from chronic financial difficulties and narrowly escaped the Dissolution of the Lesser Monasteries in 1536, before going into voluntary dissolution in 1538.
Lilleshall was one of a small number of monasteries in England belonging to the rigorist Arrouaisian branch of the Augustinians. A persistent tale, possibly stemming from William Dugdale, the pioneering 17th century historian of Britain's monasteries, claims that there was an Anglo-Saxon church at Lilleshall, dedicated to St Alkmund. Even Dugdale sounded a note of scepticism, and by 1825, when Hugh Owen and John Brickdale Blakeway wrote their history of Shrewsbury, the scepticism was dominant and they would allow only they “could not disprove” the existence of the Anglo-Saxon foundation.
Click the pic to view explore ❤️
A very nice example of an old Fiat 500 in Macclesfield. This one wears the iconic scorpion logo of renowned Fiat tuners Abarth... but not the Abarth front grill, so forgive my scepticism!
It's still very cute!
Thousands of people, mainly representatives of Berlin’s Russian population, met on 9 May 2020 at the Soviet Memorial in Treptower Park, marking 75 years since the Nazis' unconditional surrender. From the early hours of the morning until late in the evening, they commemorated the end of World War II and the countless victims of this devastating war.
There are hardly any veterans left who could tell about their wartime experiences. In the meantime, their grandchildren have taken over the conductorship in these celebrations, some of them with touching gratefulness and respect, some others in a rather playful tune. But there are also several illustrious and disconcerting individuals and groups who, under the guise of commemoration, are spreading nationalist, history-distorting and war-glorifying slogans. In the emotionally charged memory of a day when peace returned to Europe, they scatter the seeds of new conflicts and confrontations.
My photo story "Victory Day" documents an experience between emotion and scepticism, between grateful remembrance and exuberant party atmosphere.
Thousands of people, mainly representatives of Berlin’s Russian population, met on 9 May 2020 at the Soviet Memorial in Treptower Park, marking 75 years since the Nazis' unconditional surrender. From the early hours of the morning until late in the evening, they commemorated the end of World War II and the countless victims of this devastating war.
There are hardly any veterans left who could tell about their wartime experiences. In the meantime, their grandchildren have taken over the conductorship in these celebrations, some of them with touching gratefulness and respect, some others in a rather playful tune. But there are also several illustrious and disconcerting individuals and groups who, under the guise of commemoration, are spreading nationalist, history-distorting and war-glorifying slogans. In the emotionally charged memory of a day when peace returned to Europe, they scatter the seeds of new conflicts and confrontations.
My photo story "Victory Day" documents an experience between emotion and scepticism, between grateful remembrance and exuberant party atmosphere.
Thousands of people, mainly representatives of Berlin’s Russian population, met on 9 May 2020 at the Soviet Memorial in Treptower Park, marking 75 years since the Nazis' unconditional surrender. From the early hours of the morning until late in the evening, they commemorated the end of World War II and the countless victims of this devastating war.
There are hardly any veterans left who could tell about their wartime experiences. In the meantime, their grandchildren have taken over the conductorship in these celebrations, some of them with touching gratefulness and respect, some others in a rather playful tune. But there are also several illustrious and disconcerting individuals and groups who, under the guise of commemoration, are spreading nationalist, history-distorting and war-glorifying slogans. In the emotionally charged memory of a day when peace returned to Europe, they scatter the seeds of new conflicts and confrontations.
My photo story "Victory Day" documents an experience between emotion and scepticism, between grateful remembrance and exuberant party atmosphere.
Brussels, Belgium, 2024.
So, the state lies to us, does it? Who can tell? In this increasingly confusing world, no one can ever be too sure. Some people want to believe what the state keeps telling us because they just don't want to worry to much. Others don't believe everything they are told and project their scepticism to the political statements of the governments. And still others want to believe that the state is lying to us because they need it as justification for their own crude world view, for which they themselves are happy to lie.
Regardless of whether you agree or disagree with its message, the text should serve as a reminder that a healthy dose of scepticism and critical thinking is one of the key qualifications of democratic and informed citizens.
I am concerned about the widespread praise of artificial intelligence as a groundbreaking technology. Many people fail to see that relying on AI for tasks such as reading, summarizing, analyzing, evaluating, and forming educated opinions may lead to a decline in our own skills over time. If we become overly dependent on AI for these abilities, it could make it easier for dishonest politicians from both the government and the opposition to deceive us. There’s value in doing things yourself. It keeps our sense sharp and our skills honed.
There's more on www.chm-photography.com.
Enjoy!
www.youtube.com/watch?v=w25xghugIdg&feature=related
Hey Frederick/ The Jefferson Airplane
"How old do you have to be to stop your believing..."
Volunteers
"Either go away or go all the way in
Look at what you hold
Come back down on a spear of silence
When it flies
You go on through
You come on through
The ridiculous no
Oh no
One more pair of
Loving eyes look down on you
Sheets and a pillow
How old will you have to be before you
Stop believing
That those eyes will look down on you
That way forever
There you sit mouth wide open
Animals nipping at your sides
On wire wheels the four stroke man
Opens wide
The marching sound
The constant ride
On the gasket is mine
All mine
One more pair of
Wire wheels bear down on you
Gear stripping the willow
How many machine men will you see before you
Stop believing that speed
Will slide down on you
Like breaks in bad weather..."
London, “Dark secrets” exhibition, November 2025.
The Metascience Foundation, founded by American engineer George Meek, was dedicated to scientific research on the survival of consciousness after death. Its most famous project was Spiricom, an electronic device for direct communication with the dead. Developed together with medium William O’Neil, the instrument used 13 radio frequences to create an “audio bridge”.
Meek and O’Neil claimed to have recorded the voice of a deceased scientist guiding them from beyond the grave in the construction of the device. Although Spiricom became widely known, its results were never replicated by independent researchers, provoking criticism and scepticism. Nevertheless, it remains one of the earliest examples of Instrumental Transcommunication (ITC).
Thousands of people, mainly representatives of Berlin’s Russian population, met on 9 May 2020 at the Soviet Memorial in Treptower Park, marking 75 years since the Nazis' unconditional surrender. From the early hours of the morning until late in the evening, they commemorated the end of World War II and the countless victims of this devastating war.
There are hardly any veterans left who could tell about their wartime experiences. In the meantime, their grandchildren have taken over the conductorship in these celebrations, some of them with touching gratefulness and respect, some others in a rather playful tune. But there are also several illustrious and disconcerting individuals and groups who, under the guise of commemoration, are spreading nationalist, history-distorting and war-glorifying slogans. In the emotionally charged memory of a day when peace returned to Europe, they scatter the seeds of new conflicts and confrontations.
My photo story "Victory Day" documents an experience between emotion and scepticism, between grateful remembrance and exuberant party atmosphere.
Thousands of people, mainly representatives of Berlin’s Russian population, met on 9 May 2020 at the Soviet Memorial in Treptower Park, marking 75 years since the Nazis' unconditional surrender. From the early hours of the morning until late in the evening, they commemorated the end of World War II and the countless victims of this devastating war.
There are hardly any veterans left who could tell about their wartime experiences. In the meantime, their grandchildren have taken over the conductorship in these celebrations, some of them with touching gratefulness and respect, some others in a rather playful tune. But there are also several illustrious and disconcerting individuals and groups who, under the guise of commemoration, are spreading nationalist, history-distorting and war-glorifying slogans. In the emotionally charged memory of a day when peace returned to Europe, they scatter the seeds of new conflicts and confrontations.
My photo story "Victory Day" documents an experience between emotion and scepticism, between grateful remembrance and exuberant party atmosphere.
Thousands of people, mainly representatives of Berlin’s Russian population, met on 9 May 2020 at the Soviet Memorial in Treptower Park, marking 75 years since the Nazis' unconditional surrender. From the early hours of the morning until late in the evening, they commemorated the end of World War II and the countless victims of this devastating war.
There are hardly any veterans left who could tell about their wartime experiences. In the meantime, their grandchildren have taken over the conductorship in these celebrations, some of them with touching gratefulness and respect, some others in a rather playful tune. But there are also several illustrious and disconcerting individuals and groups who, under the guise of commemoration, are spreading nationalist, history-distorting and war-glorifying slogans. In the emotionally charged memory of a day when peace returned to Europe, they scatter the seeds of new conflicts and confrontations.
My photo story "Victory Day" documents an experience between emotion and scepticism, between grateful remembrance and exuberant party atmosphere.
A Glow in the Mist - Chapter 2: Hasekura’s Lighthouse
After an hour of navigating, a faint light began to pierce the veil of clouds. Hasekura’s lighthouse stood as a sentinel, marking the entrance to a perilous zone where thousands of islands, scattered in all shapes and sizes, posed a constant threat to unwary sailors. In winter, when visibility plummeted and fierce winds raged, the lighthouse became an essential beacon. Despite the biting cold, Hasekura was already waiting for his grandson on the front porch.
Once a exceptional fisherman and intrepid explorer, Hasekura now moved with difficulty, his once vigorous frame slowed by age. Summers were spent tending to his modest garden, but in the harshness of winter, he found comfort in reading traditional tales. His attic was overflowing with these ancient books, piled up alongside his old fishing gear, relics of a glorious past.
With a final maneuver, Matsuura moored his fishing ship and made his way up to greet his grandfather. Each visit was primarily an opportunity to restock the lighthouse with provisions and coal, ensuring the lantern stayed lit. But it was also a chance to sit together, sharing tea while listening to Hasekura recount the adventures of his youth.
Before Matsuura left, Hasekura presented him with an ancient book he had discovered in the depths of the attic—a weathered tome detailing the traditions and myths of the region. Matsuura, though respectful, greeted these types of stories with scepticism. To him, these were nothing more than the fantasies of an aging man, a mind slowly yielding to time. Nevertheless, he accepted the book out of courtesy, and bid farewell to the lighthouse. As he set sail, his thoughts were already on the fishing grounds that awaited him the next day.
Une Lueur dans la Brume - Chapitre 2 : Le Phare de Hasekura
Après une heure de navigation, une lueur finit par émerger à travers l’épais manteau de nuages. Le phare de Hasekura se dressait, immuable, signalant l’entrée dans une zone périlleuse : une multitude d’îles, éparpillées comme autant de pièges, menaçaient les navigateurs imprudents. En hiver, lorsque la visibilité chutait et que les vents violents déchaînaient leur fureur, ce phare devenait un repère indispensable. Malgré le froid mordant, Hasekura attendait son petit-fils sur le seuil.
Autrefois pêcheur d’exception et explorateur infatigable, il avait désormais du mal à se déplacer. L’été, il s’occupait de son modeste jardin, l’hiver, il trouvait refuge dans la lecture de contes traditionnels. Son grenier débordait de ces récits anciens, entassés aux côtés de son vieil équipement de pêche, vestiges d’un passé glorieux.
Dans une ultime manœuvre, Matsuura amarra son navire de pêche au ponton usé par les années et rejoignit son grand-père. Chaque visite était avant tout l’occasion de lui apporter vivres et charbon pour alimenter la lanterne du phare. Mais c’était aussi un moment privilégié pour écouter, autour d’un thé chaud, les récits des exploits d’autrefois.
Avant que Matsuura reparte, Hasekura lui tendit un viel ouvrage qu’il avait déniché au fond du grenier. Le livre regorgeait de légendes et de mythes sur la région. Matsuura, bien que respectueux, accueillait ce type d’histoires avec scepticisme. Pour lui, il ne s’agissait que des divagations d’un vieil homme, dont l’esprit commençait à vaciller sous le poids des années. Néanmoins, il accepta le grimoire par politesse, salua son grand-père, et quitta le phare, l’esprit déjà tourné vers les eaux poissonneuses où il jetterait ses filets le lendemain.
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Built for Wandering Skies Contest 2024, in the "Seasonal Bliss" category.
Stay tuned for the final chapter!
Instagram: www.instagram.com/loic.glbr
Our group of Friends from Venlo living in Amsterdam decided to have an outing on the Amstel River. So we divided ourselves between two motor boats - 8 apiece - and from Amsterdam's Kromhoutwerf we steered upriver to the picturesque town of Ouderkerk aan de Amstel to picnic in the shade of two magnificent Horse Chestnut trees in back of the protestant church (in the right of the photo).
The church is a monumental neoclassical structure designed by Jacob Eduard de Witte (1738-1809). Building commenced in 1773, a year or so after he was appointed Director-General of the Municipal Buildings of the city of Amsterdam under the jurisdiction of which Ouderkerk still resided. The church wasn't completed until 1809 and under another architect because De Witte was caught in a building fraud and promptly fired already in 1777.
This was all within municipal history, but Ouderkerk has a more cosmopolitan side too.
Just behind the church on the other side of the street is the entrance to the huge Jewish cemetery Beth Haim (= House of Life). It was established in 1614 and is the last resting place of many whose influence reached much further than Amsterdam. Allow me as someone interested in the history of scepticism to mention only Menasseh ben Israel (1604-1657) and the parents of great Benedictus Spinoza (1632-1677), who himself was buried in a Christian churchyard in The Hague.
And again - given the present animadversions between the governments of Morocco and The Netherlands - let me also mention that fascinating diplomat, the Moroccan Jew Samuel Pallache (ca.1550-1616). Pallache was a go-between for Sultan Mawlay Zidan el Nasir (?-1627) of Morocco and the Dutch. He was instrumental in preparing one of the first treaties between a European Christian nation and a Muslim government (1609).
So as we picnicked, these men wandered through my mind while the Sun was setting in multi-colored hues.
Salford Quays
A little bit of background history... The Lowry is a theatre and gallery complex at Salford Quays, within Greater Manchester. It is named after the early 20th century painter L. S. Lowry, known for his paintings of industrial scenes in North West England and was officially opened on 12th October 2000 by Queen Elizabeth II.
To redevelop the derelict Salford docks, Salford City Council developed a regeneration plan in 1988 for the brown field site highlighting the leisure, cultural and tourism potential of the area, and included a flagship development that would involve the creation of a performing arts centre. The initial proposals were for two theatres and an art gallery on the prominent Pier 8 site.
Between 1990 and 1991 a competition was launched and architects James Stirling Michael Wilford Associates was selected. After the death of James Stirling in June 1992 Michael Wilford continued the project. The city council bid for Millennium and other British and European funds and private sector finance to progress the project. Funding was secured in 1996 and The Lowry Trust became responsible for the project which comprised The Lowry Centre, the plaza, a footbridge, a retail outlet shopping mall and Digital World Centre. The National Lottery provided over £21 million of funding towards its construction. The project was completed in 1999 at a cost of £106 million. The Lowry name was adopted in honour of the local artist, L. S. Lowry.
Another from the night visit with Muddy Boots UK.
For me this is the real heart of the Quays complex and if this is my 45th photographic trip then I must have visited well over a hundred times for theatre events since its opening. Countless comedians, touring West End productions, lectures and the odd classic of Shakespeare, opera and ballet, although once is enough for those, but as they say... don't knock it till you've tried it! And not forgetting the permanent display of Lowry's work... always worth a visit.
I've said in the past, good architecture and design is good for the human soul and every visit is a joy for me. The wacky design - there's not a straight line in the place, and as for the colour scheme - yellow, orange and purple, it's a full on attack of the senses. It's hard to be down-hearted the moment you walk into the foyer. I've heard it described as "not quite Salford's Guggenheim" and maybe not, but for me this is my Sydney Opera House... both dared to be different in concept and design, and after the public's initial scepticism are very much loved buildings today.
I've always wanted to capture this bold " in yer face" version of the Lowry, but I've never been happy with past efforts for one reason or another. Yes, it should be a cliché image, but considering the tens of thousands of pictures taken around the Quays over the years, it's surprisingly overlooked. It has always played havoc with my sense of symmetry, but I'll forgive it for that. This may be my best effort to date and the illuminated trees a bonus as I've not often seen them. I'll settle for this for the time being, but there's always visit 46!
'Don't think I'm talking rubbish!'
Gossip and scepticism in the Jardin du Palais-Royal (1er)
Paris, France 20.09.2021
"Denke nicht, ich rede Blödsinn!"
Tratsch und Skepsis im Jardin du Palais-Royal (1er)
Paris, Frankreich 20.09.2021
To view more of my images, of Danesfield House, please click "here" !
Currently, a Private Hotel, Danesfield House, is part of an estate, which previously belonged to the Ministry of Defence (Air); namely, Royal Air Force Station Medmenham!
Please, no group invites; thank you!
Most of the following information was extracted from Wikipedia, with addition of some personal knowledge!
RAF Medmenham history commenced in April 1941, when the RAF photographic Interpretation Unit (PIU) moved to Danesfield House. This unit, over time, merged with other organisations, performing similar functions, and was renamed the Central Interpretation Unit (CIU). During 1942 and 1943 the CIU gradually expanded and was involved in the planning stages of practically every operation of the war, and in every aspect of intelligence. In 1945 daily intake of material averaged 25,000 negatives and 60,000 prints. By VE-day the print library, which documented and stored worldwide cover, held 5,000,000 prints from which 40,000 reports had been produced. Of particular significance in the success of the work of Medmenham was the use of "stereoscopic images", using a between plate overlap of exactly 60%. Having overcome the initial scepticism of Lord Cherwell, to the possibility of the new rocket technology, major operations made possible by the work at Medmenham included, on 17 and 18 August 1943, an offensive against the V-2 rocket development plant at Peenemunde. Later offensives were also made against potential launch sites at Wizernes and 96 other launch sites in Northern France. It is claimed that greatest operational success of Medmenham was with Operation Crossbow which, from 23 December 1943, destroyed the V-1 infrastructure in Northern France.
In 1952, 591 Signals Unit moved to RAF Medmenham and stayed until 1955 when it moved to RAF Digby. It was during its stay at Medmenham that the unit's crest was conceived; a Kingfisher, watching over the river Thames, representing the unit's watch over the integrity and security of RAF communications.
On 3 November 1958, RAF Signals Command (HQSC) (Motto: Aetherem Vincere - "To Conquer the Aether") was formed at Medmenham by raising No 90 Signals Group, RAF to Command status under Air Vice Marshal Leslie Dalton-Morris. It was a relatively short-lived Command, lasting only until 1 January 1969, when it was absorbed by Headquarters Strike Command (HQSTC) and reduced to Group status. At this time, RAF Signals Command was renamed to the RAF Signals Engineering Establishment (RAFSEE), moving temporarily to RAF Benson, until permanent accommodation was established at RAF Henlow!
On a close but cloudy day last May, a pair of hikers take little notice of GBRf 'Celebrity' Shed, 66721, as she restarts the 11.25am Arcow Quarry - Pendleton Brindle Heath (6M37) loaded limestone from the Blea Moor loop.
The locomotive is named "Harry Beck" after a draughtsman who worked for the London Underground Signals Office and who, in his spare time (and uncommissioned), drew up a schematic map of the system in 1931.
Despite LU's initial scepticism for his proposal, it was tentatively introduced to the public by way of a small pamphlet in 1933 where it proved an immediate hit. Successive London Underground maps, right through to the present day, use Harry Beck's style to depict the system.
In addition to carrying his name, the locomotive has been finished to incorporate a section of the London Underground map to properly commemorate Harry's achievement - as can be seen in this shot.
(Background info courtesy of Wikipedia)
12.27pm, 30th May 2018
Februar 2017
Amselmann Kurti ist wieder da und beäugt misstrauisch die Kamera. Er vertilgt jeden Tag ein Birne, wofür er ca. fünf Stunden braucht. Danach legt er eine Verdauungspause ein! - Blackbird Kurti is back und watches with great scepticism the camera. He is consuming every day a pear, which takes around five hours. After that he takes a digestion break.
Leaving Berlin:
Sold a car on Saturday.
Lost some faith on Sunday.
My team got smashed on Monday.
Wouldn Have it any other way.
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Via Instagram, so excuse the compression, and the sharpening.
if you want to see more of my photo stuff
or check out my website www.christopherratter.com
Having walked over the aquaduct I drove down to the base to look back up.
The aqueduct, built by Thomas Telford and William Jessop in 1805 , is 1,007 ft (307 m) long, 11 ft (3.4 m) wide and 5.25 ft (1.60 m) deep. It consists of a cast iron trough supported 126 ft (38 m) above the river on iron arched ribs carried on nineteen hollow masonry piers (pillars). Each span is 53 ft (16 m) wide. Despite considerable public scepticism, Telford was confident the construction method would work: he had previously built at least one cast iron trough aqueduct – the Longdon-on-Tern aqueduct on the Shrewsbury Canal.
Logic can either operate as part of an intellection, or else, on the contrary, put itself at the service of an error; moreover unintelligence can diminish or even nullify logic, so that philosophy can in fact become the vehicle of almost anything: it can be an Aristotelianism carrying ontological insights, just as it can degenerate into an "existentialism" in which logic has become a mere shadow of itself, a blind and unreal operation.
Indeed, what can be said of a "metaphysic" which idiotically posits man at the centre of the Real, like a sack of coal, and which operates with such blatantly subjective and conjectural concepts as "worry" and "anguish"? When unintelligence (and the variety we mean here is in no wise incompatible with what passes for intelligence in "worldly" circles) and passion prostitute logic, it is impossible to escape from that mental satanism which is so frequently to be found in contemporary thought.
The validity of a logical demonstration thus depends on the knowledge which we, as demonstrators, have of the subject in view, and it is evidently wrong to take as our starting-point not this direct knowledge but pure and simple logic.
When man has no "visionary" knowledge of Being, and merely "thinks" with his "brain" instead of "seeing" with his "heart", all his logic is useless to him, because it starts out from an initial fallacy. Moreover, the validity of a demonstration must be distinguished from its dialectical efficacy; the latter evidently depends on the intuitive disposition available for the recognition of truth when demonstrated, and therefore on an intellectual capacity.
Logic is nothing but the science of mental co-ordination and of arriving at rational conclusions; it cannot, therefore, attain the transcendent through its own resources; a supralogical -not an illogical- dialectic, based on symbolism and analogy, and therefore descriptive rather than ratiocinative, may be harder for some people to assimilate, but it conforms more closely to transcendent Reality.
Contemporary philosophy, on the other hand, really amounts to a decapitated logic: what is intellectually evident it calls "prejudice"; wishing to free itself from servitude to the mental, it sinks into infralogic; shutting itself off from the intellectual light above, it exposes itself to the obscurity of the lowest "subconscious" beneath.
Philosophic scepticism takes itself for a healthy attitude and for an absence of "prejudices", whereas it is in fact something completely artificial; it proceeds, not from real knowledge, but from sheer ignorance, and for this reason it is as alien to intelligence as it is to reality.
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Frithjof Schuon
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Quoted in: The Essential Frithjof Schuon (edited by Seyyed Hossein Nasr)
Poor old 66 060 wasn't in the best of health on this day and showing its age seeing as its down to the grey primer and still in EWS makings including the 3 beasties logo.
The loco is working 6K27 14.43 Carlisle Kingmoor Yard to Crewe Basford Hall Yard the afternoon Network Rail trunk SCO service linking LDC's with a loaded consist of Falcon, Autoballaster and Red Lobster wagons tipping the scales at 1588 tonne. The loco had come to grief at Upperby with a traction motor earth fault that then caused a complete loss of power as the initial fault deteriorated into something more complex. It then decided to rectify itself and restore full power but not before causing delay to passenger services. With scepticism in Carlisle PSB the loco would get its train over Shap Summit the Carlisle Thunderbird was scrambled to follow the train to Shap should it fail again hence being looped here for some time waiting for a clear margin of time to get a run at the hills beyond Penrith.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat. Instead, we are in central London, near the palace of Westminster and the Thames embankment at the very stylish Metropole Hotel*, where Lettice is finally having her first assignation with the eldest son of the Duke of Walmsford, Selwyn Spencely after he telephoned her last week. After she hung up the receiver on the cradle, Lettice was beside herself with joy, causing somewhat of a kerfuffle with her downstairs neighbour, Mrs. Clifford after her jumping up and down caused the lady’s pendant lamps to rattle and sway from the ceiling above. Since then, Lettice has spent hours of her life over the ensuing days going through her wardrobes, trying on outfit after outfit, much to the irritation of her maid, Edith, who has to pick up after her. In a whirl of excitement and nerves, Lettice has gone from deciding to wear pale pink organdie, to navy serge, then to peach and rose carmine satin, to black velvet with white brocade trim. Yet now, as she shrugs her coat from her shoulders into the waiting arms of the liveried cloak room attendant of the Metropole, Lettice knows that her choice of a soft pale blue summery calf length dress with lace inserts accessories by a blue satin sash and her simple double strand of perfectly matched pearls is the perfect choice. The colour suits her creamy skin and blonde chignon, and the outfit is understated elegance, so she appears fashionable and presentable, yet doesn’t appear to be trying to hard to impress. Breathing deeply to keep the butterflies in her stomach at bay she immediately sees her companion for luncheon lounging nonchalantly against a white painted pillar.
“Darling Lettice!” Selwyn exclaims as he strides purposefully across the busy lobby of the Metropole. “You look positively ravishing.”
Lettice smiles as she sees the glint of delight in his blue eyes as he raises her cream glove clad right hand to his lips and chivalrously kisses it. “Thank you, Selwyn.” she replies, lowering her lids as she feels a slight flush fill her cheeks at the sensation of his lips pressing through the thin, soft kid of her glove. “That’s very kind of you to say so.”
“I’ve secured us a discreet table for two, just as you requested, my angel.” He proffers a crooked arm to her. “Shall we?”
Lettice smiles at his words, enjoying the sound of his cultured voice call her by a pet name. She carefully winds her own arm though his and the two stroll blithely across the foyer, unaware of the mild interest that she and Selwyn create as a handsome couple.
“Good afternoon Miss Chetwynd,” the maître d of the Metropole restaurant says as he looks down the list of reservations for luncheon. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.” Ticking the entry off the reservation list he takes up two menus. “Right this way, Your Grace.”
He leads the couple through the busy dining room of the hotel where the gentle burble of voices fills the lofty space and mixes with the sound of silver cutlery against the blue banded gilt hotel crockery, the clink of glasses raised and the strains of popular Edwardian music from the small palm court quartet playing discreetly by a white painted pillar.
“Your Grace.” Lettice says in a lofty fashion, giggling as she makes a joking bob curtsey to Selwyn as they follow the maître d.
Selwyn scoffs and rolls his eyes up to the ornately plastered ceiling above. “You know it’s only because of Daddy**.”
“I know,” Lettice giggles again. “But isn’t it a scream: ‘Your Grace’.”
“I’m not ‘Your Grace’ to you, my angel,” he smiles in return. “Just Selwyn will be fine.”
“As you wish, Just Selwyn.”
The crisply uniformed maître d stops before a small table for two surrounded by tables of suited politicians and a smattering of older, rather tweedy women. He withdraws a dainty Chippendale style chair from the table and Lettice takes a seat. The older man expertly pushes the chair in with her as she settles before the crisp white linen covered table.
“Does this table suit you, Lettice darling?” Selwyn asks a little nervously. “Discreet enough for you?”
“Oh yes, thank you Selwyn.” Lettice replies as she observes all the diners around them, busily involved in their own discussions with never a thought for the two of them, although she does notice an older couple at a table a short distance away observing them discreetly. The woman turns to her husband, indicating something about Lettice’s wide brimmed pale blue hat, judging by her gesticulation and his withering glance in response.
“Could that be one of your mother’s spies?” Selwyn asks, breaking into her quiet thoughts.
“What?” Lettice gasps. “Where?”
“There.” Selwyn gestures towards a potted palm, the fronds trembling with the movement of a passing waiter carrying two plates of roast beef to a nearby table scurrying past.
“Oh Selwyn!” Lettice slaps his hand kittenishly. “You are awful! Don’t be a tease and startle me like that.” She smiles as she returns to perusing her menu. “You know my mother’s spies are everywhere.”
“As are Lady Zinnia’s.” he replies.
Selwyn looks around the room taking in the Georgian revival furnishings, the restrained Regency stripe wallpaper, the watercolours of stately British homes in gilt frames as much as his architect’s eye pays close attention to the restrained fluted columns, ornately plastered ceilings and general layout of the room. “It’s so thoroughly English, don’t you think?” he concludes as he picks up the menu to peruse it.
“Oh,” Lettice says a little deflated as she lowers her menu. “You’d prefer something a little more, European? Should we have dined at a French restaurant?”
“Oh no Lettice darling,” he assures her with a defending hand. “I was just remarking. As I think I told you on the telephone, I haven’t been here since before the war, and I think the décor is much improved. It’s so much lighter and free of that ghastly old Victorian look.”
“I was saying the same thing to Miss Wanetta Ward the last time I came here.” Lettice remarks.
“Wanetta Ward? Isn’t she the moving picture star?” Selwyn looks over the top of his menu at his luncheon companion.
“The very one!” Lettice elucidates. “Do you ever go?”
“To the kinema***? No.” He shakes his head vehemently. “Do you?”
“No, I don’t either, but Miss Ward insists that I must experience it some day. Not that Mater or Pater would approve if I ever worked up the gumption to go.”
“Surely you don’t need to tell them if you do go.”
“Are you encouraging me to be devious, Selwyn?”
“No,” Selwyn laughs, his eyebrows lifting over his sparking blue eyes. “I’m simply suggesting that you are of age, and your own person with your own life in London, whilst they live their lives in far away Wiltshire. You can go to kinema if you wish. No-one need see you. In saying that, my parents feel the same about it, especially Mummy. She is very much against what she calls ‘painted women who are a poor and cheap copy of great art, moving about overdramatically on screen’.”
“I’ll be sure not to tell Miss Ward your mother’s opinion of her the next time I see her.”
“My mother’s opinion is entirely uneducated, Lettice, I assure you. After all, like both you and I, she has never actually seen a moving picture before.”
“Well, considering that both my maid and my charwoman*** go to the pictures, I very much doubt that I ever will.” Lettice concludes. “How would it be if I sat next to them? Besides, I have heard picture theatres called fleapits***** before, which sounds none too promising when compared with a lovely evening at Covent Garden.”
“Well, I don’t know about you,” Selwyn announces, changing the subject. “But I rather like the look of the roast beef with Yorkshire pudding for luncheon. What will you have?”
Lettice looks disappointedly at her menu. “When I came here with Miss Ward, we shared a rather magnificent selection of savories and little deadlies******, but I suppose they must reserve them for afternoon tea, here.”
“Fear not!” Selwyn says, giving Lettice a beaming smile. He carefully catches the eye of the maître d and summons him with an almost imperceptible nod of his head.
“How may I serve Your Grace?” the maître d asks with a respectful bow as he approaches the table.
“Look here, my companion Miss Chetwynd had some sweet and savoury petit fours when she last came here and speaks very highly of them. I’d taken a fancy to trying them for myself, so might we have a selection for two, please?”
“Well Your Grace,” the maître d begins apologetically. “They are from our afternoon tea menu.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could have word to your chefs, especially to please such a charming guest.” He gestures with an open hand to Lettice as she sits rather awkwardly holding her menu, her eyes wide as she listens to Selwyn direct the manager of the restaurant. “It would please her,” He then plays his trump card with a polite, yet firm and businesslike smile that forms across his lips like a darkened crease. “Both of us really, if you could perhaps see about furnishing us with a selection from your afternoon tea menu.”
“Well I…” stammers the maître d, but catching the slight shift in Selwyn’s eyes and the twitch at the corner of his mouth he swallows what he was going to say. “Certainly, Your Grace.”
“Good man!” Selwyn replies, his eyes and his smile brightening. “And some tea I think, wouldn’t you agree, Lettice my dear?”
“Oh, oh… yes.” Lettice agrees with an awkward smile of her own.
As the uniformed manager scuttles away, shoulders hunched, with Selwyn’s request, Lettice says, “Oh you shouldn’t have done that, Selwyn. Poor man.”
“What? Are you telling me that you are displeased that you are getting what you desire for luncheon, even though it doesn’t appear on the menu?”
“Well, no.” Lettice admits sheepishly.
“See, there are advantages to having luncheon with a ‘Your Grace’.” He gives her a conspiratorial smile.
“You do enjoy getting your way, don’t you Selwyn?”
He doesn’t reply but continues to smile enigmatically back at her.
Soon a splendid selection of sweet petit fours and large and fluffy fruit scones with butter, jam and cream has been presented to them on a fluted glass cake stand by a the maître d along with a pot of piping hot tea in a blue and gilt edged banded teapot.
“So,” Selwyn says as he drops a large dollop of thick white cream onto half a fruit scone. “At the Hunt Ball we spent a lot of time talking about our childhoods and what has happened to me over the ensuing years,” He shakes a last drop off the silver spoon. “Yet I feel that you are at an unfair advantage, as you shared barely anything about yourself al evening.”
“Aahh,” Lettice replies as she spreads some raspberry jam on her two halves of fruit scones with her knife. “My mother taught me the finer points about being a gracious hostess. She told me that I must never bore my guests with trifling talk about myself. What I have to say or what I do is of little or no consequence. The best way to keep a gentleman happy is to occupy him with talk about himself.”
“You don’t believe that do, my angel?”
“Not at all, but I found it to be a very useful tactic at the Hunt Ball when I was paraded before and forced to dance with a seemingly endless array of eligible young men. It saved me having to do most of the talking.”
“I hope you didn’t feel forced to dance with me, Lettice darling.” Selwyn picks up his teacup and takes a sip of tea. “After all you did dance quite a bit with me.”
“You know I didn’t mind, Selwyn.” She pauses, her knife in mid-air. “Or I hope you didn’t think that.”
“I suppose a healthy level of scepticism helps when you are an eligible bachelor who happens to be the heir to a duchy and a sizeable private income. Such things can make a man attractive to many a woman.”
“Not me, Selwyn. I am after all a woman of independent means, and I have my own successful interior design business.”
“Ah, now that is interesting.” he remarks. “How is it that the daughter of a viscount with her own private income, a girl from a good family, can have her own business? It surely isn’t the done thing.”
“Well, I think if circumstances were different, I shouldn’t be able to.”
“Circumstances?”
“Well for a start, I am the youngest daughter. My elder sister, Lallage, is married and has thankfully done her bit for her husband’s family by producing an heir, and given our parents the welcome distraction of grandchildren, thus alleviating me of such a burden.”
“She and Lanchenbury just had another child recently didn’t they?”
“My, you are well informed. Yes, Lally and Charles had another son in February, so now my sister has provided not only an heir, but a spare as well.” She pauses for a moment before continuing. “Secondly, and perhaps what works most in my favour is that I am my father’s favourite child. If it were up to my mother, I should have been married and dispatched off by the end of the first Season after the war. But Pater enjoys indulging his little girl, and I know just how to keep him continuing to do so, and keeping Mater and her ideas at bay just enough.”
“And how do you achieve this miracle, my angel?”
“I decorate mostly for the great and the good of this fair isle,”
“I don’t think I’d call a moving picture star a member of the great and good!” laughs Selwyn heartily.
“Yes, well…” Lettice blushes and casts her eyes down into her lap sheepishly. “I did rather get in trouble for that, but only because my mother’s awful cousin Gwendolyn, the Duchess of Whitby, told tales behind my back. Anyway, I design and decorate mostly for people my parents approve of, and I play my part socially and pretend to be interested in the things my mother wants for me.”
“Like marriage?”
“Like marriage.”
“So, if you aren’t interested in marriage, why are we having luncheon then, my angel?”
“I never said I wouldn’t get married someday, Selwyn,” Lettice defends with a coy smile. “I just want to do it in my own fashion, and I believe that marriage should begin with love. If I am to get married to a man I love, I need to know him first.” She pauses again and stares firmly into her companion’s sparkling blue eyes. “I’m sure you agree.”
“I’m quite sure my mother, Lady Zinnia, wouldn’t agree with you and your modern ideas about marriage.”
“Any more than my own mother does. When I told her that I wanted to do this my own way, by arranging to meet you myself she told me ‘marriages are made by mothers, you silly girl’.”
“And you don’t agree with that?” he asks almost unsurely.
“Would I be here if I did, Selwyn?” Lettice takes up the bowl of cream and begins to drop some on her scones.
Selwyn starts chuckling in a relieved fashion, consciously trying to smother his smile with his left hand, a hold and ruby signet ring glinting in the diffused light cast from the chandeliers above. He settles back more comfortably in his seat, observing his female companion as she stops what she is doing and puts down both the spoon and bowl of cream self-consciously.
“What? What is it Selwyn? What have I done?”
“You haven’t done anything other than be you, my angel, and that is a great blessed relief.”
“Relief?” Lettice’s left hand clutches at the two warm strands of creamy pearls at her throat.
“Yes,” Selwyn elucidates, sitting forward again and reaching out his hand, encapsulating Lettice’s smaller right hand as it rests on the white linen tablecloth. “You see, I was worried that it was a mixture of champagne and the romance of the Hunt Ball that made you so attractive. You were so naturally charming.”
Lettice bursts out laughing, the joyous peal mixing with the vociferous noise around them. “I was dressed as Cinderella in an Eighteenth Century gown and wig. I’d hardly call that natural, Selwyn.”
“Aahh, but you were my darling, beneath all that. I must confess that when I suggested luncheon today it was with a little of that healthy scepticism that I came here.”
“But I don’t need your income, Selwyn, I have my own.”
“But you do have a scheming mother, and many a mother like Lady Sadie want their daughters to marry a fine title, especially one that they may have desired for themselves. A Duchess is a step up from a Countess, I’m sure you agree.”
“Oh I don’t care…”
“Shh, my angel,” Selwyn squeezes her hand beneath his. “I know. However, that also makes you a rather exceptional girl, so I’m glad that my misgivings were misplaced. I’m pleased to hear that you’re in no rush to get married, and that you have set yourself some expectations and rules as to how you wish to live. Perhaps you were born at just the right time to manage as a woman in this new post-war era.”
“Please don’t tell Mater that,” Lettice says, lowering her spare hand from worrying her pearls. “She’ll be fit to be tied.”
“I promise I shan’t say a word to Lady Sadie, or my own mother. Both are cut from the same cloth in that respect.” He releases her hand and settles back in his chair. Picking up a scone he takes a bite. After swallowing his mouthful and wiping his mouth with his serviette he continues, “Now, do tell me about your latest piece of interior design. I should like to know more about it.”
Lettice sighs as she feels the nervous tickles in her stomach finally start to dissipate as she settles back in her own seat and starts to tell him about ‘Chi an Treth’ the Regency house in Penzance that belongs to her friends, the newly married Dickie and Margot Channon.
*Now known as the Corinthia Hotel, the Metropole Hotel is located at the corner of Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall Place in central London on a triangular site between the Thames Embankment and Trafalgar Square. Built in 1883 it functioned as an hotel between 1885 until World War I when, located so close to the Palace of Westminster and Whitehall, it was requisitioned by the government. It reopened after the war with a luxurious new interior and continued to operate until 1936 when the government requisitioned it again whilst they redeveloped buildings at Whitehall Gardens. They kept using it in the lead up to the Second World War. After the war it continued to be used by government departments until 2004. In 2007 it reopened as the luxurious Corinthia Hotel.
**The title of Duke sits at the top of the British peerage. A Duke is called “Duke” or “Your Grace” by his social equals, and is called only “Your Grace” by commoners. A Duke’s eldest son bears his courtesy title, whilst any younger children are known as Lords and Ladies.
***In the early days of moving pictures, films were known by many names. The word “cinema” derives from “kinema” which was an early Twentieth Century shortened version of “kinematograph”, which was an early apparatus for showing films.
****A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.
*****Early cinemas were often derisively referred to as “fleapits”, however the name given them was for very good reason. As cheap entertainment for the masses, with entry costing a paltry amount, early moving picture theatres often had problems with fleas infesting themselves on patrons who were free of them from those who had them. This was especially common in poorer areas where scruffier cinemas did not employ cleanliness as a high priority. Even as late as the 1960s, some filthy picture houses employed the spraying of children with DDT when they came en masse to watch the Saturday Morning Westerns!
******Little deadlies is an old fashioned term for little sweet cakes like petit fours.
An afternoon tea like this would be enough to please anyone, but I suspect that even if you ate each sweet petit four or scone on the cake plate, you would still come away hungry. This is because they, like everything in this scene are 1:12 size miniatures from my miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau:
The sweet petite fours on the lower tier of the cake stand and the scones on the upper tier and on Lettice and Selwyn’s plates have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. Each petit four is only five millimetres in diameter and between five and eight millimetres in height!
The blue banded hotel crockery has been made exclusively for Doll House Suppliers in England. Each piece is fashioned by hand and painted by hand. Made to the highest quality standards each piece of porcelain is very thin and fine. If you look closely, you might even notice the facets cut into the milk jug and the steam hole in the teapot.
The fluted glass cake stand, the glass vase on Lettice and Selwyn’s table and the red roses in it were all made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The cake stand and the vase have been hand blown and in the case of the stand, hand tinted. The red roses in the vase are also made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures.
The Chippendale dining room chairs are very special pieces. They came from the Petite Elite Miniature Museum, later rededicated as the Carol and Barry Kaye Museum of Miniatures, which ran between 1992 and 2012 on Los Angeles’ bustling Wiltshire Boulevard. One of the chairs still has a sticker under its cushion identifying which room of which dollhouse it came. The Petite Elite Miniature Museum specialised in exquisite and high end 1:12 miniatures. The furnishings are taken from a real Chippendale design.
The vases of flowers on the stands in the background are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The three plant stands are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, whilst the sideboard is made by high-end miniature furniture maker JBM. The paintings come from an online stockist on E-Bay.
Barcelona's iconic Pedrera building never fails to impress. Standing in front of its stunning facade, I couldn't help but marvel at the intricate curves and undulating shapes that seemed to come to life in the sunlight. Fun fact: did you know that Gaudí's original plan for the building was met with scepticism and even ridicule? Over a century later, it's become one of the city's most beloved landmarks.
📍La Pedrera (Casa Milà), Barcelona, Catalonia.
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ESP: El icónico edificio de la Pedrera de Barcelona nunca deja de impresionar. Parado frente a su impresionante fachada, no pude evitar maravillarme por las curvas intrincadas y formas ondulantes que parecen cobrar vida bajo la luz del sol. ¿Sabías que el plan original de Gaudí para el edificio fue recibido con escepticismo e incluso burla? Ahora, después de más de un siglo, se ha convertido en uno de los monumentos más queridos de la ciudad.
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CAT: L'icònic edifici de la Pedrera de Barcelona mai deixa de sorprendre. Parat davant la seva impressionant façana, no vaig poder evitar meravellar-me per les corbes intricades i formes ondulants que semblen prendre vida sota la llum del sol. Sabies que el pla original de Gaudí per l'edifici va ser rebut amb escepticisme i fins i tot ridícul? Ara, després de més d'un segle, s'ha convertit en un dels monuments més estimats de la ciutat.
It seems entirely fitting that a memorial plaque to the actor and director Sam Wanamaker should be right next to that of William Shakespeare in Southwark Cathedral – because without Wanamaker, there would be no modern Globe Theatre in London.
Sam Wanamaker, an American, moved to London in 1950 and became obsessed with building an exact replica of Shakespeare’s Globe; he simply couldn’t understand why it had never been done before.
Despite much scepticism, his passion, persistence, drive and energy raised millions of pounds and his ambition was eventually achieved: the theatre opened in 1997 and is still going strong. Sadly, though, he didn’t live to celebrate the day; he died from cancer three years earlier.
A blue plaque at the Globe also commemorates his tenacious achievement.
A man is detained by police during the Million Mask March attended by many lockdown sceptics, London, 5 November 2020
The Hebridean is a breed of small black sheep from Scotland, similar to other members of the Northern European short-tailed sheep group. They were often formerly known as 'St Kilda' sheep, although unlike Soay and Boreray sheep they are probably not from the St. Kilda archipelago.
Modern Hebrideans have black, rather coarse wool, which fades to brown in the sun and often becomes grey with age, there is no wool on the face or legs. If not shorn the wool may moult naturally in spring. Rams and ewes typically have one pair of horns, but often have two or even more pairs, and occasionally none. They are considerably smaller than most other breeds of sheep, fully grown ewes weighing only around 88 lb. (40 kg), and rams slightly heavier, at around 110 to 130 lb. (50 to 60 kg). Hebrideans are hardy and able to thrive on rough grazing, and so are often used as conservation grazing animals to maintain natural grassland or heathland habitats. They are particularly effective at scrub control, having a strong preference for browsing.
The sheep kept throughout Britain up to the Iron Age were small, short-tailed, and varied in colour. These survived into the 19th. century in the Highlands and Islands as the Scottish Dunface, which had various local varieties, most of which are now extinct, although some do survive, such as the Shetland and North Ronaldsay. The Dunface's kept in the Hebrides were very small, with white faces and legs, their bodies were usually white, but often black, brown, russet or grey, the fleece was short and soft. Both male and females were typically horned, many of them having two or even three pairs of horns. The Dunface was gradually replaced with long-tailed breeds such as the Scottish Blackface and Cheviot, and it died out on the mainland and eventually also on the Hebridean islands.
The ancestors of Hebridean sheep were exported from St. Kilda and were known as 'St. Kildas' in the 19th. century, being kept in the parks of wealthy and aristocratic landowners in Britain. Early owners included the Marquess of Breadalbane of Taymouth Castle in the 1840's and 1850's, Sir John Orde at Kilmory, Argyllshire and Mark Milbank at Thorp Perrow, North Yorkshire, from the 1850's. They were successfully bred to black, though some 19th. century St. Kildas were more variegated. In 1906 John Guille Millais renamed these sheep 'Hebrideans', asserting that they were "a deteriorated variety of the Hebridean sheep". His classification thus lumped them with sheep known as Hebrideans which were kept by a very small number of owners in the late 19th. century. In 1912, Lydekker claimed that St. Kilda's were "of uncertain and mixed origin"; scepticism and denial about their St Kilda origins has continued ever since.
Four of the 19th. century St. Kilda flocks survive, at Weston Park, Staffordshire, Tatton Park, Cheshire, Harewood House and Kirk Hammerton, North Yorkshire.
In 1973 the ornamental Hebrideans were identified by the Rare Breeds Survival Trust as being in need of conservation. Since then the breed has been revived, and it is no longer regarded as rare, and is now kept in many parts of the world, including its native Hebrides.