Followers

Tuesday 5 March 2024

Pick a place but don't say where it is and the others have to guess

Sarah's contribution

Describe a place – 3 a place I like to return to

A river runs through it. And around it, and between its various neighbourhoods. In fact, two or three rivers, and
numerous canals and basins, particularly in the port. It is a city built on the water, or infiltrated by the water, and
that is a good part of its charm. The largest river, which goes to the sea 450 miles or more downstream, is however
completely at the edge of the city, and serves as a national border; in former times this area was so marshy and so
much a mass of little waterways and small frequently flooded land masses that it would have been disastrous to
attempt to build on it, and so the city was constructed two miles inland. Two or three centuries ago, the only way to
cross this great river at this level was partly over a pontoon bridge, that is, a series of connected flat boats, that
supported what must have been a rather wobbly carriageway.
But the water is not the only charm of this historical city. Along the winding quays to the south-east of the central
island, tall ancient houses crowd together, their steeply rising roofs lined with rows of dormer windows, their
pastel-coloured façades contrasting with the more homogenous cream of the larger, more elegant stone edifices on
the opposite bank. Along one of the quays, several barges serve as floating cafés and bars where you can read a
newspaper with your morning coffee or have a drink with friends in the evening. Farther west on the central island
lies la Petite France, a quarter of half-timbered houses, less tall, that cling to the water's edge and house restaurants
and hotels. The centre of the island is dominated by the great cathedral with its late medieval statuary, its stained
glass and its astronomical clock, surrounded by old streets with houses from medieval and Renaissance times, or the
17th and 18th centuries, and other old churches and institutions from former times, not the least of which is the old
Customs House.

Just across the river from the Customs House is the old hospital with its massive dormered roof and its half-
timbered pharmacy. This part of the city, just south of the central island, is the old faubourg called the Krutenau,

originally a swampy area crossed by little rivulets, gradually tamed to become the place from which the town got its
vegetables and fish, and then, when the town began to expand in the 18th and 19th centuries, to include military
barracks, now transformed into schools, and the former tobacco manufacture. To the south of this quarter runs the
canal de la Bruche, part of the old port, that with other waterways continues round the west and north and east, so
that the city centre is surrounded by a second circle of water.
That is the old city. To the north-west of the central island is the Neustadt, or “new city”, built a hundred years ago
by the Germans, with its imposing palaces in imperial German style: the university, the library, the theatre, the
police headquarters, the treasury devoted to collecting the taxes, the former Emperor's Palace, now devoted to
managing fluvial affairs, the court house, and beyond these, dozens of streets constructed in such a way as to afford
views of the cathedral and its spire from unexpected points of the city. These streets are lined with stately four- and
five-story apartment buildings, many of which sport decorative balconies, and smaller structures in Art Nouveau
style. Here there are several green parks, one with an art nouveau bandstand (though I have seen a band playing
there only once) and another with tall trees colonized by a nation of storks and a small lake where you can hire a
boat and row around a fountain and a miniature waterfall. On the other side of the central island to the south of the
Canal de la Bruche, is Neudorf, or “new village”, also constructed by the Germans, as a more homely residential
area. And in all these parts of town, the centre, the Neustadt, the Krutenau, one hears a multitude of languages,
spoken by the student population , the representatives of various foreign consulates and the tourists: French,
German, English, American, Italian, Spanish, Arabic, Chinese and many others I wouldn't be able to recognize.
But the town has not stopped growing, especially in recent years. To the east, towards the present-day port, the city
now resembles something out of Star Wars, with hyper-futuristic buildings fifteen and twenty stories high,
constructed mainly of glass and vying with each other to show off the most startling shapes. That is not my
favourite part of town, though I do go there sometimes, for practical reasons. My favourite spots are the central
island, the quays, and the Neustadt, where I have my flat, far from the bustle of the centre and from the harsh
modernity of the port area.

 ___________________________________________________

Patrice

The juniors, forgot to turn the light off before opening the door. If Jake can figure out who it was there will be hell to pay and I don’t want to be around to hear it. I can see movement off in the corner and a round, firefly of light wafts across a small space as if in flight, where it brightens for a moment and then makes its way back to its starting point. Shit, I’d put money on it – Roseanne is smoking again with the cute new boy. More hell to pay. 

 

The swish of clothes, the murmur of voices, the rustle of paper, begins to increase in volume. My butterflies are waking up. I scrape at the floor with the front of my shoe – there's a slippery spot here that has caused trouble before – I put spit on my heel, then jump up and down without actually taking my toes off of the floor. 

I crane my neck to see the glow in the dark clock in the corner. Four minutes .... If we start within two minutes of our time I win the bet – if we go longer, I lose. I so do not want to spray the vodka tonight – I want to be out of here 30 minutes after lights out and I've got my fingers crossed. All of sudden it becomes quiet; it feels as if there has been and inhale and no exhale. And then, it all begins and I have won the bet. 

Where is this?   (just before a theatre production)

______________________________________________________

Annemarie

 

Kampala

The city I have visited most often always sent a thrill of excitement when we went there. It was the centre of a vibrant social scene, intellectual hub, a city of colour and of diverse people.

Built on  seven hills,  Rubaga, Old Kampala, Mulago, Kololo, Kibuli, Namirembe and Makerere) topped by distinctive landmarks of religious, cultural and colonial significance, the city provides magnificent views of evergreen trees, gently interrupted by red-tiled villas,  bungalows with roofs of corrugated iron, cathedrals and churches. A little more than a mile from the lake (Victoria) and linked by rail is Port Bell operating ferries on that  lake. So let me take you on a short tour of the city.

Our first stop is Katwe  market, a centre of African ingenuity, where  artisans, craftsmen and technicians repair electronics, automobiles, refrigerators and all kinds of appliances. The more ingenious of these craftsmen would improvise and "manufacture" imitations of the original articles. We leave one of our passengers here to spend the day with his friends. A cacophony of sound, a kaleidoscope of colours accost us. The women are adorned in long cotton dresses, puff sleeves and cotton headwraps.  Baskets of fruit and vegetables are displayed on the ground, bunches of small canary yellow bananas and large green matoke bananas hanging from the sun shelters. After a walk through the market, clutching baskets of fruit and avoiding the 'shenzies', those errant, pitifully thin dogs, we are on our way to the town centre.

The main shopping thoroughfare is dominated by Draper's department store. Clothes, haberdashery (does anyone still use that word?) and shoes but best of all coffee or Pepsi Cola and delicious cakes in their cafe. If you prolong your visit until sunset a gorgeous  perambulation of Indian women in sumptuous saris of scarlet, saffron, sapphire, all the colours of the rainbow take their evening walk with their children and sometimes their more plainly dressed husbands. In the park on Sundays the grass is sprinkled with families picnicking, playing and parading. The evening ends with a meal at Chez Joseph where at the age of ten you can really feel sophisticated and French with a mushroom omelette. I understand it is still there, possibly in the form of a bar/eatery.

Visible from downtown are the twin towers of the red brick Catholic cathedral dominating Rubaga hill. The seven hills boast buildings dating from the late 19th, early 20th century which have remained despite civil war; the university, once considered the best on the continent, the Hindu temple built in 1954, and perched on Kibuli hill a magnificent gem of a building, white minarets gleaming in the encircling abundance of green palm trees and opened by Prince Ally Khan.

On yet another M’engage hill is the Kabaka's (king's) palace. Since I last visited the palace has been vacated due to dark events which took place there. A special torture chamber was built by the president Idi Amin Dada, where an estimated three hundred people were murdered. About four miles out from the palace are the Kasubi tombs. Previously the royal hilltop palace it is now a UNESCO World Heritage site. It was converted to a royal burial site in 1884 containing four royal tombs and is recognised as one of Africa's remarkable buildings. The main building of the complex, is circular in plan with a domelike overall shape. Massive in size, its interior extends to a height of 7.5 metres, while the external width is 31 metres. There is a low, wide arch entranceway. The whole is covered by durable thatch roofs extending all the way to the ground; the interior funereal chambers are separated by partitions of bark cloth.  Lemon grass and palm leaf mats cover the floor, while spears, drums, shields, medals and photos of the kabakas cover the walls and other surfaces. All  the buildings on site are constructed of entirely organic materials such as wood, thatch, reed, wattle and daub.

Five minutes from the centre is the highest of the city's seven hills, Kokomo Hill.  This residential area has some of the most beautiful and luxurious houses as well as more than a dozen embassies and ambassadors' residences. The area is green and lush, lined with jacaranda trees, the lilac blue florescences dripping their petals onto the pavements.

And in complete contrast away from the city centre the roads are dirt and dust, skirted on either side by higgledy piggledy  dukas (shops). Gone are the colours of the centre… here are greys, blacks and grubby beiges. Men sit treadling away on sewing machines, their bare feet in constant seesaw motion;  men in holey vests and patched shorts tinker on old motorbikes; piles of old tires await transformation into utilitarian sandals, barefoot children offer oranges, bananas for virtually nothing, a key can be copied in minutes. These little shops are crowded with goods , toppling on shelves, suspended from a hundred hooks.

This is the city as I remember it sixty years ago but I am sure is quite, quite different now.

____________________________________________________

Jackie

I’m surrounded by grasses, lying face down, tall soft grasses with green stems and golden shoots that  look gigantic from where I am on the ground  – there is a fresh and beautiful smell of  Spring and birds are singing their hearts out.     There are ordinary grasses and ornamental Grasses that are soft to the touch and fluffy at the tips.    They’ve  grown tall in the garden and surround a fine lawn, the kind of lawn which only exists in a damp humid climate,  meticulously maintained and carefully cultivated

 I’m 8 years old still wearing my school uniform of pleated navy skirt and checked navy blue and white blouse, I’ve taken off my tie and thrown my panama hat on the nearby deckchair.    For this I shall get told off for getting it dirty.

 I’m watching an ant climb a grass shoot and it’s taking its time – the ant feels its way then inches up the thick stem – as the stem sways the ant stops,  looks around and sniffs the air.  It wipes one of its hairy wiskers, then the other one, and licks its paws,  as keeping clean is a must for ants – up again he climbs, a few inches and when it finally gets to the top, I smile as he looks really surprised that he can’t go any further and has to turn around and go back down again.     I spend hours watching the insects come and go dipping my licorice stick into a tub of sherbert .

  My imagination runs wild;    I am the newly coronated Queen of the garden – surrounded by Princess radish and my lady in waiting Mrs lettuce, Prince runner bean twists up a bamboo pole, my subjects are golden marigolds with equisite perfume.   

It’s feeding time.   I have 6 angora rabbits.   These rabbits have long white hair and you can regulary brush them to recuperate the fur – my mother knitted me a  sweater from my rabbits hair.   It was so warm and cuddly.   I won first prize once with my rabbit at the local garden fete  – The prize was £5 and her name was Jennifer White Cloud and my photo was in the local newspaper the “ Bournemouth Blank Times” .

 Dishes clash in the kitchen and then I hear the sound of my fathers vespa coming up the road.  Its 6 o clock and Dad is home.   Tea of fishfingers and baked beans will be ready in half an hour and then we listen to our favorite radio program with Mum as television was not yet in our house as it was just coming into fashion.  

There was a small path through a little forest near my home and my favorite pastime was to take a notebook and write down all the number plates of the cars that go by on the busy road.  The path was lined with rhodendron bushes a particular bush that thrives in the damp acid soil produced in this part of the world.     There were tractors, single decker green buses but by far the most popular car was the Austin Morris or  the Morris minor.

I enjoyed making lists of all these numberplates methodically for some reason.   To no purpose I might add.    Once I set up a stall selling Sunkist lemonade for twopence a glass –.

We did have a car it was a Vauxhall Viva and our numberplate was

BRT 210.  How is that for memory.  This should give you some clues as to where I am talking about

Where am I?  family home in Dorset, England in the 1960’s

______________________________________________________________

Paula's story 

From our hotel room on a shady street, I could hear horses’ hooves, faintly at first, then louder, a clop-clop-clop cadence that was almost musical. I opened the door to the balcony and stepped outside into the sunshine to see a vast parade of ornately uniformed men and women on horseback, flag-bearing lieutenants marching steadily alongside, an empty steed-drawn Cinderella coach in the very center of the action. The procession went on for blocks.

 What we were watching was an elaborate dress rehearsal. The next day was the opening of parliament, and the king and queen would be traveling in their ceremonial glass coach to the Hall of Knights, to perform the obligatory duties of the head of state. And as our hotel was just across the street from the palace, we were in a perfect position to watch the spectacle, even if it was only the pre-game. Luckily, we would be leaving early the next morning, and would avoid getting trapped by all the pomp.

 We turned back inside, returning to our breakfast tray of pastries and mimosas to plan our last day in one of the most fascinating and energetic cities we had visited in the past year. Within a few minutes, we put our plan into motion. A stroll downtown brought us to a tram stop, where we boarded the streetcar for a 10-minute ride to the end of the line: a vast beach lined by a boardwalk and ringed with boutiques, bars and hotels that ranged along the high dunes. We walked out onto the main pier, a wide, wooden structure filled with shops and restaurants, but decided that we would amble down the boardwalk to the far end, looking for a more out-of-the-way waterfront restaurant for our lunch.

 We decided to take a gamble on a large, tented building with a huge deck facing the sea. Now, we have learned through years of travel that most waterfront restaurants with above-par views serve sub-par food. But halfway through our first round of ice cold beer, we were pleasantly surprised to find our meals at this beachfront bistro, delivered with a smile by a young woman in a tight T-shirt and fraying shorts, were delicious and delightful. After lunch, and a walk along the beach, we headed back up the hill to the tram stop.

 Thirty minutes later, in the opposite direction from the beach, we alighted from the tram in a perfectly preserved canal town, whose claim to fame boasted two things: the birthplace — and grave — of a certain famous artist, as well as a particular form of pottery. A busy central market square was filled with adults drinking aperitifs, children chasing balls, dogs chasing each other. The sun was shining, the air was crisp and clean, and we chose a table where we could watch all the action. Then we ambled along the canal, admiring the small, narrow houses, as well as the ducklings clustered around their mothers in the water.

 Heading back to the tram, we were back in our (so-far) nameless city, hungry for dinner. We chose an Italian restaurant just off the main canal, where the candlelight was dim, the music was soft, and the food was incredible.

 Early the next morning, we walked to a small pearl of a museum in the center of town to be first in line as it opened. There is a certain girl there that we desperately wanted to see without crowds of people gathering around her, taking selfies. She rests on the top floor of the old three-story mansion, alone in a hushed room. We call her simply, The Girl.

 Then we got into our car and drove the six-and-a-half hours home to Flavigny.

 _________________________________________________________________________________

Geraldine'sstory

SOMEWHERE

 

 

We were to meet with Alain, Michel’s old pal and forever friend at the Airport.

This year, we weren’t going to be home for Christmas -it’s December 21st-.  We are going to test a tour somewhere that Kevin is organizing as he is creating a travel agency and a few of his friends and ourselves would be the guinea pigs for the « tour ».

The flight took off at 11 p.m. and the excitement of discovering something new took over in our stomachs.  First stopover in Marseille from which we were supposed to catch a flight at 3.40 a.m. which got postponed till 7.30…. Another stop in another town and after flying over a large sandy desert, here we are at destination.

After such a long trip, we got off the plane and were walked into the smallish airport on a « Red Carpet » !  Waouh ! What a welcome for a few passangers !  As we  went through the passport controls, we asked why such a welcome and were told they hadn’t had time to roll the carpet back since Jacques Chirac’s visit 24 hours ago.  Well, we would have to find out what type of welcome was expecting us.

Kevin and his friend were there to greet us.  It was hot.  They took us to a 4wheel drive car and introduced as to the guide « Chicago ». 

A quick look at the town : a very big Mosque  where I was allowed in… but shown the place on the side where the women were to pray, the unclean ones remaining outside. It’s very impressive to see how these big places built in earth bricks resist to the climate.  Chicago took us up on the roof with a breathtaking view.  A deep blue sky and your eye catching the desert, long sandy waves going for ever.  He explained this was the place from which the camel caravans went up North hundreds of kilometers to fetch the rock salt : the slaves were the ones used for this tedious task.  Ank even yet today, it’s the way the poor pay their debts to the rich in the City : they’re still get sent North to gather the rock salt that is extracted in large quantities.  Modern slavery !

We then got a look at René Caillet’s house : this was the man who discovered this town in 1830 and came back to France alive. He was considered as the first « africanist » respectfull of the men and civilizations that he discovered  and who denounced both slavery and the condition of the women there.

Finally we got a look at the well that is still maintained by a woman, with a few vestiges and objects of the neolithic .

Then came the moment when we joined the pinasse that was going to take us on the river for three days to reach the point where we  were having a 2 day rest before pursuing our journey.

Very « confortable » with a toilet at the rear end.  Well, the loo, is above the engine with a little curtain for your privacy, but completely open behind.  So, you certainly don’t stay there for long…

We lit a charcoal fire in the middle of the pinasse and cooked a few bits of meat and a few vegetables for dinner.  Then, gently sliding on the quiet waters,  the mosquitoes came to visit and it was night. We all slept in the boat, under the stars,  very unconfortable and  a bit too small.  Tomorrow, we’ll put the tent up and split the sleeping.

It’s all calm, the sun rises very quickly at the rythm of the animals sounds and  hearing  a variety of birds chirping.  The world comes back to life and so do we, with a nice breakfast served in the pinasse with warm buns and cheese.

The trip carries on along the slow river, sometimes crossing other pinasses carrying goods , wood or bulks of rice.  They bear a sail made out of big jute  ricebags with a crooked wooden mast attached by rough ropes. We stop in a small village to buy 2 chicken at the market, live of course, and our guide makes it his job to kill and pluck them and prepare them for our meal.  Termite mounds and villages unfold at a slow pace and we stop along the river in a sandy spot to have a bathe.  It’s really hot !

Then our guide realized he’d taken the wrong meander on the river during the last three hours, which means we are going to turn back for another three hours before we take the right branch of river again.  There is quite a bit of water vegetation that slows us down a little…

We stop again in a village along the riverside to buy some fish and Alain decides to buy a live goat that will be our Christmas meal !!! He knows how to kill animals as he has, in another life, had a few goats, his wife making and selling their cheese… As we start off on the river again, the goat cries and cries and cries, as he had just been separated from his mother he had always lived with and brother and sister goats… It was really heartbraking, but these consideration seemed so strange to our guide !  An animal is an animal, bread to feed humans and that’s it !

We reach a large Lake that we will cross, the river flowing in the same direction.  We came upon of few fishermen’s  huts among the reeds. There are loads of very colourful singing birds living there.  You think you’re in the desert surrounded by nothing and then you find out  all this river and it’s banks are full of living creatures, human or animal.

As we are ending this third day, we realize we will have to sail at night because of the lost hours….before reaching the point and town where we are expected that evening.

Little by little, the banks are changing and more and more vegetation appears.  We seem to be leaving the desert behind.  Then, all of a sudden shrieking  monkey cries reach our ears : the river is now very wide, so looking on the far apart banks, we can spot large colonies of medium size brown monkeys gathering together.  The sunfall is quick, the birds louden their calls as the skys turns scarlet red.  Five minutes of fire on the river in the deafening dim of the birds and animals getting ready to sleep, then all is quiet, just the noise of the engine and the water along the pinasse’s hull.

Another three hours sailing quietly along the river will get us to the place we were aimaing at since we left.  We stop along the wharf and take all our stuff : rucksacs, luggage without forgetting the goat.  There is a Bar just round the corner and we all stop there for dinner, without mosquitoes as they have the fans on ! Bliss !

Then, goodbye to our guide and off to Kevin’s house where we will be celebrating Christmas tomorrow and more adventures will be to come.

 

Jackie suggests the Congo, Anne marie says Timbucktu and everyone says Africa but not sure where. ?

 

 


 

 

 

 



 

Tuesday 23 January 2024

The Little Things

 


Sarah's story
It’s the little things –

Gladys Grunge had been driving along a country road, a little fast perhaps, and she had knocked down and run over a woman who was carrying a load of sticks on her back.  A lot of people hereabouts heated their houses with wood fires, and you needed small wood and branches to get the fire started.  Unfortunately the woman died, and Gladys Grunge was called in for investigation.  
“I thought she was a tree!”
“You thought she was a tree, so you drove straight into her?  It wasn’t that you hated her guts and held her responsible for your collapsing marriage?”
“You can’t prove that!  And my marriage was not collapsing!”
“It’s not that Carmen Gonzales and your husband were often seen together, especially at the dance saloon on Saturday nights?  That your husband was frequently seen to walk out of the house and slam the door?  That your husband bought a red scarf at the church social that was never seen on you but which Carmen Gonzales was wearing when she died?”
“Pfft!  Those are little things!”
“It’s often the little things that turn into clues to uphold bigger things!  And there are other things that are not so little that I might mention, such as the fact that your husband bought a diamond ring at the jeweller’s, which I don’t see on your finger?”
“He did not!”
“And that he has asked for divorce papers to serve on you.”
“He has not!”
“Mrs Grunge, we have the means of obtaining proof of these things, and when we do, you’d better be prepared to spend a while in jail awaiting your trial.”
The prosecution was able to call in numerous witnesses to make up the case against her.  The town had already made up their minds, and there were many people ready to testify against her for one reason or another.  There were scores of testimonies to her bad character, her aggressive attitudes, the fact that she went to every village council meeting and voted against every proposal to better things, but the prosecution wanted something more concrete, and they got it.  The couple never closed the blinds on their windows so that was easy enough.  One said she had seen them quarrelling many times.  One of the problems was that she smoked like a chimney and he wanted her to stop, but she just blew the smoke into his face.   Another said that on the day before the infamous “accident” someone had seen her slap his face, hard, and he didn’t strike back but just turned around and walked out of the house.  When they asked those who had known Carmen Gonzales they all agreed she was often seen with Bruce Grunge, that she had been rather lonely and sad last year but that lately she had been very happy and joyful, that once someone had left a dead animal, already putrefying, on her doorstep with a note ‘stick to your own kind’ and another time someone had thrown a bottle through her window.  There was little doubt as to the author this time, for there was a note inside  “get your hands off my husband”.
But Gladys Grunge was never condemned by law, never even brought to trial, because one night she was strangled in her bed, most likely by her husband, in that he was never seen afterwards and has never been found since.  The police at first made some efforts to track him down, though the townspeople mostly considered justice had been done and were not particularly helpful.  They finally gave it up as a cold case and eventually the story became old news and will probably remain so, unless thirty years from now some zealous young detective decides to reopen the case.  But even if they do manage to track Bruce down, he’ll probably be dead by then.  I know this because I know where he is and I’ve been writing to him, under an assumed name of course; the poor guy has cancer of the lung.  You might almost say she’s killed them both.
 











   

Paula’s story 

Samantha was feeling really down. She had been feeling especially blue for days. In fact, she was convinced she was severely depressed. This phenomenon happened to her, it seemed, a few times a year. She couldn’t explain it. She couldn’t blame it on the continuous gray, rainy weather, or on work stress, or on her husband’s changing moods, or on her recent seemingly insurmountable disagreement with an old friend.

The one thing that seemed to help when she felt this way was to get out into nature. Living in New York City meant there weren’t too many options, but there was a small park near her apartment, and so she headed there one morning. As she strolled along the path, a woman with a medium-sized dog on a leash walked toward her. The dog, an adorable, fluffy, caramel-colored thing with overgrown brows and big brown eyes, was straining toward Samantha, and as they got closer to each other, the dog excitedly jumped up to meet Sam, gazing at her with adoring eyes. Sam’s mood immediately lifted. It was so strange, like this random dog and she had connected in some mystical way. She smiled for the first time in days, and she bent down to pet the pup and accept his many kisses. Her heart soared, and her smile got wider.

 The dog’s owner chastised her dog: “Sadie, get down! Down, Sadie,” then said apologetically to Samantha, “I’m so sorry. She does that to everyone. She just loves everybody.”

 Samantha petted the fluffy dog one last time, then walked away. The blues descended again like a lightning bolt. Why did she have to say that, Sam wondered. What did she have to make me suddenly and completely feel not so special, after all?

 It’s the little things like that, Samantha thought, that can make or break someone’s day. Or someone’s life.

 And that’s when she had an epiphany: Barely thinking about what she was doing, she walked across the park, looked up on her phone the address of the local animal shelter, and headed the few blocks there, where she adopted her own fluffy little pooch, one that would offer unconditional love, get her out into nature for daily walks, and look at her with adoring eyes.




Monday 22 January 2024

Monica's book club outing

 

Collectors and dealers of Asian art in France (1750-1930)

For those who couldln't make it to our outing in Dijon on the 19th of January, I'm just putting up a few photos for memory.      Also gives some the chance to read stories from our writing group.









Tuesday 5 December 2023

55 °




Paula's story


At 55 degrees latitude south, there exists a whole world that few people know about or understand.  It is the extraordinary world of the albatross.

The albatross is a large, magnificent seabird that is capable of soaring incredible distances without rest.  Long viewed with superstitious awe by sailors — haven’t we all read Samuel Coleridge’s poem, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner? — these birds spend most of their lives in the air, gliding over the open Southern Ocean. 

 Most people around the world have never caught even a glimpse of these unusual birds, because when the albatross does visit dry land, it often is on Campbell Island, a remote, uninhabited place south of the South Island of New Zealand, in the Southern Ocean. The birds come here to breed year after year, free from predators, before going back out to sea. On New Zealand’s South Island itself, a smaller colony of albatrosses started a breeding colony when one albatross couple got lost by accident on their way to Campbell Island, and others soon followed. The colony sits on a forbidding, windy promontory maintained by the country’s national park service, where the staff protects them from predators, and where a colony of Royal albatrosses returns year after year to lay and nurture their eggs.

By the way, albatrosses mate for life. They form a long-term bond with one partner, and usually the only thing that can separate them is death.  Yet, they spend limited time together, meeting up only briefly once a year at their annual breeding grounds until their one egg for that year is laid. They then take turns incubating the egg and foraging for food. Eventually, both birds must search for food to keep their growing chick fed. Once their chick leaves the nest, the parents separate for the rest of the year, flying alone out to sea, and reuniting only when it's time to breed again.

Once a young albatross leaves its nest, at about 165 days, it may spend a year or more at sea without touching down on land. Because of the risk of shark attacks, they touch down in the water only briefly, to feed.

And about that feeding: The albatross has an amazing sense of smell, and can smell food in the water from up to 20 kilometers away. But following a scent trail on the open ocean isn’t easy. In 2008, researchers fitted 19 wandering albatrosses with GPS sensors and found that they often approach food by flying upwind in a zigzag pattern, which seems to improve their chances of tracing an intermittent odor plume to its source. And how is it that they can fly upwind so easily?

 

The wingspan of a wandering albatross measures up to four meters across, which makes it the largest bird on Earth in terms of wingspan. The albatross can soar 800 kilometers in a day, and can maintain speeds of nearly 130 kilometers per hour for eight hours straight without ever having to flap its wings. Part of the secret is locking joints, which let the birds keep its wings extended for long periods with no energy cost from its muscles. In addition, the birds have mastered something called dynamic soaring, which means they can fly along a continuously curved path in a way that takes energy from the wind, giving them, basically, an unlimited external energy source.

 

Albatrosses can be found in the Southern Ocean and the North Pacific. They prefer Antarctic, sub-Antarctic, and sub-tropical waters. They primarily are found in the Southern Hemisphere with a few exceptions, such as a colony that returns every year to Oahu, in Hawaii. The albatrosses that breed in New Zealand often cross the planet to feed at the tip of South America, at 55 degrees latitude south.

 

Albatrosses live long lives. They can survive for many decades, some well beyond 50 years. The best-known example is a bird first banded by scientists at Midway Atoll in 1956, and named Wisdom by the researchers. Wisdom continued returning to Midway for more than 50 years, raising about 3 dozen chicks during her life. At 70, she was still breeding.

 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner goes on for days, as you probably know, but I’ll end with a very abbreviated few verses taken from different parts of the poem.


Ah! well a-day! what evil looks 

Had I from old and young! 

Instead of the cross, the Albatross 

About my neck was hung.

           *****

The self-same moment I could pray; 

And from my neck so free 

The Albatross fell off, and sank 

Like lead into the sea.

           *****

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 

To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! 

He prayeth well, who loveth well 

Both man and bird and beast. 

 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 

All things both great and small; 

For the dear God who loveth us, 

He made and loveth all.

_________________________________

Jackie

The villagers in Viserny, a small village in Burgundy, woke one morning to the sound of tractors, cranes and electric saws

Alarmed, they gathered together and walked up the hill to see what was causing this noise.   To their horror, trees had been cut, paths excavated leaving great tire imprints creating troughs of mud making it impossible to walk.    Someone had been clearing the land cutting trees and plants directly behind their precious natural spring.   The land had been sold to a Belgian company for wood.

There was never a water shortage even on the hottest days of summer, even during the drought of 1976 which caused hundreds of skeleton like cattle lowing in their fields.

The natural spring was located on a hill just above the small town.    For centuries water has gushed out of the ground into the well providing  the whole village with delicious fresh water and never the need to buy bottles.

Every morning Michel trundled up the hill to inspect the spring  with his thermometer .

55 degrees was the perfect water temperature keeping bacteria at bay .  Drinking this water gave the villagers a rosy complexion and no one ever had any problems with sciatica or arthritis.       The doctors in the big town nearby had no patients from this village and most people had never been to the local hospital and some didn’t even know where it was .

That particular year Mme Barnier  started to get peculiar aches and pains in her joints groaning each time she got up from her chair – 88 year old Raymond Berthier had a strange soreness in his stomach and admitted that he should go see a doctor for the first time in his life.   Jojo had an argument with next door, became aggressive and tried to shoot his neighbor.

The newly weds Tim and Julia argued all day long – slept apart and generally started to hate each other .    The children in the village school became unruly, distracted and uncontrollable – lessons had to be stopped.    The teacher abandoned the class .    Nobody turned up to the few gatherings planned and generally a very morose atmosphere hung over the village.    Something was amiss.

Michel went as usual to check on the spring waters.   He first took a sample and was horrified to discover that there were bacteria in his pipette – then he took the temperature of the water and discovered that it was above normal, well above normal in fact 60° instead of 55°.  Just a few degrees more changed the nature of the water from transparent to yellow

What has happened to our water the villagers cried -     and realized that the destruction of the trees was causing havoc to their precious spring.

Armed with axes, screwdrivers, knives and even scissors  they descended on the tractors and vehicles left overnight and dismantled engines, cut tires rendering them useless.   They worked all night and the following morning the Belgian workmen unable to cut down any more trees limped dejectedly out of the village and were never seen again.   New trees were planted and grew the water gradually descended to its normal temperature of 55° and bacteria disappeared,  villagers enjoyed health and happiness once again.

I’m not suggesting that we should take things this far when we have a case of environmental destruction, as we could rapidly all find us in prison.     But, this is just a reminder that we can act and should act accordingly trying our best to save our forests and our planet.

 

_______________________________________________________________

Sarah's post

55° 3  –  Christmas party
(02.12.2023)

The Christmas party at the firm has never been one of my favourite events.  Some of the staff put up what they esteem to be attractive decorations, destined to make us all feel cheerful.  They serve a small assortment of things that pass for food and there’s an open bar.  And they get in a small band that plays a variety of dance music interspersed with Christmas carols.  Maybe it gets more lively if you stay long enough.  But for the time I usually stay, there are only a few couples out on the dance floor, plus a few of the single female staff, and most everybody else is just hanging around the bar.  They call me the Lone Ranger, but I don’t mind.  That’s the way I’ve always been.  Besides, I’m a little too old for all that; I’d rather be at home in my armchair with my pipe, listening to Schubert.  At these company socials, there’s no Schubert and you can’t smoke.  But the fête can be helpful to some people.
For instance, last year I was sitting there, nursing my drink and trying to calculate how much longer I had to stay before I could decently leave, when a young co-worker from the meteorology department came and sat down next to me.  
“Ho!  Something not right, Greg?” I asked, at the sight of his woebegone countenance.
He just nodded, but appeared even more dejected than before.  I looked round the room, and a little further off I spied a colleague on whom, I was pretty sure, my friend Greg had a crush.
“Say,” I said.  “There’s Sharon sitting over there, and all you fellows are neglecting the women.  Why don’t you go over and speak to her.”
“I have.”
“Don’t tell me she didn’t respond.”
He looked wretched, but he consented to explain though it was clearly torture to him.
“I went over and tapped her on the shoulder.  She turned round and gave me such a smile I was thrown for a loop.  All I could think to say was, ‘You’re sitting on my coat.’  Which she was, by the way.  Just like that her expression changed.  ‘By all means, take your coat,’ she said, moving over, and her smile had gone to about 55°.”
“Fahrenheit or Celsius?” I asked trying to lighten the atmosphere.
“Fahrenheit of course.  Not exactly frosty, but like the hostess who says ‘How delightful to see you’ when you can tell she’d rather you hadn’t come.  I’ve blown it, totally.”
“Hmm,” I said.  “I’d suggest you go right back there, put your coat down again where you picked it up, and when she looks at you again, as she will, you give her a smile of 55° Celsius and you ask her to dance.”
“I can’t dance,” he said.  “I don’t know any of these new dances, only the waltz I learnt when I was ten and my mother forced me to go to dancing lessons.”
And the next number, which started at that very moment, was as it happened, a waltz.
He looked at me doubtfully, so I just pushed him in the right direction and turned my back on him, so as not to give him a chance to protest or make him feel he was watched.  When I glanced back a few minutes later, I saw the two of the moving awkwardly to the rhythm of the music.  But as I continued to look, their  movements grew more and more fluid and relaxed, and soon they swirled gracefully out of sight.
I turned away again, but I suddenly felt rather jolly.  Not to spoil things, I downed the rest of my Scotch and left the party before my mood changed again.
This year I’m almost looking forward to the Christmas festivities.  Greg stopped by my desk the other day and said he and Sharon were having a few friends in after the party, and would I come?
“Don’t worry,” he said, “we’ll leave early.”  Such tact!  He knows me well.            + 675 wds

 

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