The rails were washed and punctual. At the destination I paused for blue sky. A perfectly conventional place, rendered strange by a continual stream of young people crossing it.
I rested the bag of books on a convenient spot
and reprieved the feet on a better class of pew.
The many many many shoppers were aimless, obstructive, as indeed we were ourselves, but the duck toastie worked. Home in time to see a shred of young moon dip into the trees, though not in time to keep company with it.
and also a lot of rain. The combination is not ideal.
Lots of bargains and lots of curiosities. I’m not entirely sure why this one took my eye, but will report on it in due course.
The sky took a break as I walked home.
Today needed treats – and received them. The sun shone right through the cathedral.
Museum items on display included an astonishingly massive gold torc
a bronze spear
and a money-box almost 2000 years old.
The quiche was good too. And I visited my favourite urn.
Eyes ahead past the nefarious persons standing sentry at each end of the underpass.
The yellows are fine this year, picking up luminously as the small torch passed,
accumulating into drifts here and there.
Death always draws a line, and, with spectacular symbolic timing, Fluffers’ death has drawn a long one.
The moon was nearly full last night; just enough shadowed terminator to reveal some craters.
Considering that the photos were taken by a phone being held up in the vague direction of a cheap refractor, they weren’t too bad. I couldn’t capture a complete moon image through the 25mm eyepiece, because the phone couldn’t cope with the glare. The shorter eyepiece gives a less bright segment that the camera could manage, but the sweet spot in the 10mm eyepiece is a bit limited.
Pythagoras is the one with the peak; Sinus Iridium and Plato show up well given that they have no defining shadows:
Inghirami is a good name for a crater (its floor in shadow and tucked in behind Schickard) and I don’t think I have ever identified it before. Grimaldi and Hevelius are further north. Again, without shadows I am surprised that Tycho wasn’t just one flat glare:
Sitting on the shingle, I washed my hands of a responsibility.
As predicted, I had a lighter journey home.
Yesterday it was easy to pretend it was still summer, just by taking off the jumper and ingesting a lolly.
Less easy today, but all the transport links were smooth and I got in just as the rain began.
In the back of my mind for a long time, and fortuitously spotted on a library shelf.
Diaries are so moreish, especially when the author is a writer of any talent. The more personal sections of these diaries have been pruned, largely in consideration for persons still living at the time of this publication, but Channon was the man who knew “everybody”, knew the gossip, knew the workings of politics, was the ultimate worldling of his small world of society and parliament in the 1930s and 40s, so his insider view is of considerable interest.
At the same time, the sheer variety and humour keep the format refreshed: Channon’s misadventures with royal chamber pots are irresistible (p 21), as is the tendency of Queen Mary to look like the Jungfrau (p 133). My favourite absurdity, however, occurs in November 1940, during the Blitz, when Channon’s house received a direct hit while he was holding a dinner party: ... there was an immense crash and a flash like lightning. … we all rushed into the hall, and were at once half-blinded by dust and smoke … out of the darkness sprang an ARP warden, whom I recognised as, of all people, the Archduke Robert [of Austria] … I led them into the morning room, gave them drinks, and rang the bell (p 274).
Yesterday I went bounding off – well, stepping out – and once past the industrial estate the walking was pleasant: a beautiful September day. I was more interested in terraces than in tourism, and the itinerary did not include the pilgrimage destination, the Big House, or the italianate church looking bizarre among chalk and flint cottages.
It did, however, include the local garden centre as a possible watering hole. This was fortunate. I reached the junction named baldly (but exactly) Park Wall, and fell flat on my face, taking the knee out of my favourite walking trousers and myself. The garden centre supplied running water, tea, teacake, and plasters, and the excursion turned into a jigsaw hunt instead.
Found in a charity shop. Once you look, it is amusing to note the subtext of the image: apparently Manhattan residents are even more insular than other island dwellers. 🙂
The image also contains, of course, a great many ghosts.