TWA
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Twa Havens are part of the NE Coastline between Slains Castle and the Bullers of Buchan, Aberdeenshire.
Slains Castle can be seen in the distance.
TWA Airlines old Airport terminal ( Nostalgic )
"New York JFK Airport."
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Thank you for your visit and comments!
The former TWA terminal at JFK Airport in New York. Now the TWA Hotel. It is a trip inside! It's full of history from the 60's with an airplane off the back, which makes a great backdrop for photos.
One of TWA's original planes restored and on display behind the TWA Hotel at JFK Airport in NYC. I believe it can be rented for events.
The word Twa in old Scots is two, and Coos are what we call cows. Definition for the non-Scots viewing my photostream.
The picture was made on the Island of Cumbrae last weekend and is looking towards the Kyles of Bute and the hills of Argyll.
The breed of the cows is Banded Cattle, these ones don't have very good bands as they are usually much broader.
I love Heilan Coos, passed these beauties at Achadh a Ghlinne in Glen Arnisdale prior to doing a hillwalk in the area.
'Twas brillig and the slithey Toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe. 'Twas always brillig here in the wabe; the sunlight smiltering through the dense canopy of the Tumtum trees, then pooling on the floor as a green chollazy swamp of brackish light.
The Jabberwock with eyes of flame came whiffling through the Tulgey wood and burbled as she came. This was her beloved home, the Jabberwock. She was born here and she would die here, amongst the great, wise Tumtum trees. She skoffled and skiffled between the thick trunks, whiffling at the flurgey ground. She stopped and whiffled once more, pressing her sensitive fingers against the warm soil. Aha! She shovelled at the earth with her claws, digging down-down-down. At last her treasure was unearthed, a Gruffle: a large nugget of fungi that nestled deep in the ground. She scobbled it down, relishing the pungent taste. A nearby Jubjub bird frindered down from a low branch and chiray-chirooped with its low, haunting cry. It hopped amongst the clods of earth left by the Jabberwock, picking up the fattest and tastiest grubs - stickerstack! stickerstack! GLUP! – and it was gone. A favourite treat for the Jubjub.
The Jabberwocks lived symbiotically with many of the creatures of the Tulgey wood. The Jubjubs would alight upon the backs of the slow Jaberwocks, cleaning and grooming their hair. The Jubjubs would sit atop the Jabberwocky heads, safely away from the playful and frumious Bandersnatch and chiray-chiroop if there was danger close by. In return the Jabberwocks would unearth the fattest grubs. The grubs of the Gruffle fungi were the sweetest and most nutritious. A Jubjub would not have to eat again for weeks after a meal of just one single Grufflegrub.
The woods had been full of these, once. The Gruffles and the Grufflegrubs, the Jubjubs and the Bandersnatches. Her people had planted and tended to their food source with slow patience and care. That was their way, slow. Steady. Theirs were the gentle ways of the woods. But now it was her, and her alone, with nothing for company but her Jubjub and her youngling that snurfled within her pouch, growing as slow as the seeds of a borogove. Her people were all gone and with them many of the Jubjubs. Jabberwocks had flaming eyes, and claws that snatched, so they had been hunted. Hunted for the value of their teeth. Hunted for game. Hunted until it was only she left.
The Jabberwock whiffled onward, her hips swaying to-and-fro, to-and-fro. Pausing only to scratch her old, crickled back upon a Tumtum trunk. Pausing only to listen to the joyous gyre and gimble of the Toves. The thick silence made her sad and so she jabbered to her Jubjub friend as she moved. She loved the language of her people. It was musical. They had thousands of words for the sunrise, depending on the cloud formation, the sifting of its light through the tree canopy, the colours hues and the pattern of colour-bruising. They had hundreds of words for the way the shadows played upon the ground and for the way the river murmured. The Jabberwock missed speaking with her people. And she missed hearing her name. For, she had a name, the Jabberwock. One she had not been called her name for, oh! a very long time. 'Waxing-moonlight-dancing-mysteriously-through-the-branches-on-a-warm-summer-night-as-the-southern-breezes-sing.' was her name. In her mother-tongue it was a a poem, but to those who did not know it was no more than a burble and a jabber.
At last the Jabberwock entered a clearing. She stood still, her face bent close to the ground. She was at the tomb place. The sanctuary of sleep and bones. Her sacred place. Here the ones she loved best were scrimpled down beneath the ground, awaiting a time they would be reborn. She wept here. She wept for her mother and her sister. She wept for her partner and her teachers. She wept for times past. She grieved and celebrated life, her tears watering the ground, swinging her rump from side to side in the dance of the dead. Amongst these graves flowers grew. An abundant garden of pristine flowers, springing upward and outward their heady scent jingering. The huzz of insects that fed from the nectar and the scratch of their scrittly wings joined her gurbling cries.
The Jubjub chiray-chirooped and chirooped once more. “Danger!” it called. “Danger ahead!” She heard it, then. A scrubbling amongst the trees. Footsteps. Someone was here. She could feel eyes upon her. The Jabberwock turned and observed him for only a moment. 'Twas nothing but an uffish boy and yet he held a blade. The Jabberwock whiffled on, past the sleeping sanctuary, heading as fast as her cumbersome legs would carry her, toward the heart of the woods. Quick. Quick! She blindered on, burbling words of hope and of comfort to her pouch-child.
One-two! One-two! And through and through! The vorpal blade went snicker-snack. He left her dead, and with her head, he went galumphing back.
The Jabberwock's recumbent bulk lay lifeless amongst the flowers. The huzz of the insepcts and the gimble of the Toves dropped to a dense, dark silence.
But then....
But then.... woven amongst the silence, a scrowl rose up. The Bandersnatch had been a witness to it all. The death of the last Jabberwocky, by a mere boy with a vorpal blade. The Bandersnatch called out to the Jubjubs, and to the slithy Toves. It called out to the Tumtums trees and to the Grufflegrubs.
“And has't he slain the last of the Jabberwocks? Oh, come to her side, my teemish fellows.
Oh dournful day, Ahloo, ooohway!” it scrawtled in its woe.
And from the silence a cacophony grew. And grew. And grew. Every creature of the woods gave a voice to the sound. Every creature gathered around her, and joined the requiem.
“Wait.... look!” the Bandersnatch scrowled. And silence reigned once more.
“But look!” The slithy Toves gyred and jimmered.
“But look!” the Jubjubs chiroop-chireeped.
And from the pouch of the Jabberwock, soft claws emerged. And then a head. A pair of bright, and flaming eyes, full of curiosity and intelligence. None other than the Jabberwock's daughter. They named her there and then, that child of the Jabberwock. “Cacophony-song-of-joy-and-woe-birthed-amongst-the-flowers.” was her name.
'Twas Brillig and the slithy Toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe.
The Jabberwock with eyes of flame came whiffling through the Tulgey wood and burbled as she came.
Story by VLS
"Wasted on Autumn" Series
PhotographicArt by Hal Halli
www.youtube.com/channel/UCCFyy9A0vHZi18GiLXUmC3A
twitter: @hal_halli
All Rights Reserved. © Hal Halli (2013-2016)
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The newly renovated TWA Hotel: The TWA terminal, now still Terminal 5 at JFK, is Eero Saarinen's most well known works, one of the best examples of mid-century modern architecture.
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