I do love a shadow hedge, inching along some public path or little-used country road. Here are three local examples.
For Becky’s NovemberShadows.
Shadow Hedge
Category: Uncategorized
Two Birds Who Need Their Five Minutes of Fame …
Suddenly, it’s almost the end of November. Suddenly, I have too many Shadows to cram into NovemberShadows. But these two demanded their five minutes of fame.
First, a fossicking godwit:
And next, a young herring gull. I hope he really is tidying the beach, and not regarding that plastic bottle top as his next meal.
Mysterious
Mysterious. That’s what Patti wants us to discover in this week’s Lens-Artists Photo Challenge.
I’m starting off with what I find to be one of Nature’s most mysterious offerings – here in the UK anyway. The murmuration. When hundreds upon hundreds of starlings take to the skies at dusk, weaving and turning and painting the sky in ever changing patterns. Until, quite suddenly – they stop. Until the next sundown, when this astonishing performance takes place all over again.
Landscapes can often present a mysterious face. Sunsets and sunrises can do that. As my featured photo shows. And fog. As here:
And trees. Winter trees, with their blackened branches and awkward angles, elbowing us into the mystic woodland.
What about a stag, looming enigmatically out of the shadows?
Let’s go into town. A cobbled street, the shadow of a lamp standard ….
And now to lower the tone. A toothless hag … an otherwordly face discovered in parkland in a pile of logs.
I’ll finish with my favourite mystery memory. Mists rising from our local river at dawn on May morning.
Welcome back, Patti. After an unwelcome forced absence. You’re sharing the post today with Becky and her NovemberShadows: two, to be exact.
Flowers for Cee
Parts of the blogsphere have turned into a bouquet this week. A bouquet for Cee, blogging supremo, who loved to share her photos (often, though by no means exclusively, of flowers), her tips, her knowledge of blogging and of camera lore. She died earlier this year, and yesterday would have been her 65th birthday. So that’s why bloggers in every continent have sent flowers for her. Here’s mine.
This bouquet has been orchestrated by Dan and Marsha. Thank you – such a good idea, to bring the blogging community together in this way, to celebrate Cee’s’ life.
And you can read a message here from Chris, Cee’s wife of 35 years.
For Becky’s NovemberShadows, as Becky was a good friend to Cee and Chris, and was able to visit her during her final weeks.
Footnotes in History: Ammerschwihr
On our recent trip, mainly to Alsace, but with sorties to Germany and the Netherlands, we came across several stories from the past which we’d known nothing about, but found engrossing. For the next few Fridays, I’ll share these stories with you.
Ammerschwihr
We happened upon Ammerschwihr on our way back from Le Linge and decided to stop, attracted by its mediaeval town gates.
It’s a prosperous little town. This commune is home to the highest number of winegrowers in relation to the number of inhabitants anywhere in Alsace. And that’s saying something.
As we mooched round, it gave the air of being yet another pretty town of half-timbered houses. Until we reached the old town hall, which these days doesn’t even justify being called a facade.
Then a small plaque. Oh! So it was destroyed during the war?
Buildings nearby were clearly more modern, though sympathetically built to fit in with the ancient centre (which we later realised were also reconstructions). We found another notice, attached to the wall of one of the many wine producers in town.
We needed to know more.
During the later stages of WWII, The Battle of the Bulge was the Germans’ last attempt to break through Allied lines. They gained a dangerous amount of French territory in a campaign which though apparently well known, I hadn’t heard of. The Allies promptly regained much of this territory, except in an area near Colmar, which became known as The Colmar Pocket. Ammerschwihr was in this zone, and like so many other nearby communities, it lost 85% of its buildings to bombing raids in December 1944.
But the ins and outs of military campaigns are above my paygrade, and if they interest you, you can read about them here and here. I prefer to know what life was like for the women and men on the street. Although I read that the conditions for the serving soldiers during this part of the war were truly horrendous. A particularly harsh winter in 1944 – 45 meant that both sides endured the sheer misery of fighting in deep snow and mud in totally inadequate clothing. Getting supplies to them was a sometimes unachievable struggle. Casualties were extremely high.
For the civilians, life was no better. Ammerschwihr wasn’t evacuated, but many villages were, and unending columns of the dispossessed trailed to what they hoped was safety, having lost everything but the little they could carry. Those who remained faced street barrages, hand-to-hand fighting. Food and often water were hard to come by, and the population hid in cellars, sharing what little they had. For those of us whose territory wasn’t invaded during WWII, this suffering is almost unimaginable. And afterwards – the long hard road to reconstruction, and trying to re-establish some kind of normal life.
Here’s what it says in WWII History Tour: Colmar Pocket
Once under German control, Alsace was subject to forced Germanization policies. The use of the French language was banned in schools, public spaces, and even private conversations in many cases. Street names were changed, French cultural symbols were removed, and local populations were pressured to embrace a German identity, often against their will. Families with French allegiances were treated as enemies, and suspicion ran high among neighbours, with the region caught between two nations. The sense of belonging for Alsatians became deeply conflicted as they struggled to retain their unique Franco-German culture under oppressive occupation.
Perhaps the most devastating aspect of Nazi control was the forced conscription of Alsatian men, known as the “Malgré-nous” (meaning “against our will”). Thousands of young men were drafted into the German army, the Wehrmacht, and even the feared SS, despite many feeling a strong allegiance to France. Some were sent to fight on the Eastern Front, where casualties were extremely high. Families were torn apart, and many Alsatians who tried to resist conscription faced imprisonment, deportation, or execution. After the war, the return of Alsace to France did not immediately heal the scars. The region carried the burden of divided loyalties, lingering mistrust, and the painful memories of occupation and forced service, which shaped its identity for decades to come.
It was hard to reconcile all this with the charming, civilised, peaceful little town we wandered around. The nearest we got to the unpleasant realities was this building, once a town gate, once in fact a prison, and known as Le Tour des Fripons – the Tower of Knaves. It all seemed much less immediate than the town’s more recent disturbing history.
Indian Friday: Last Day in Chennai
My diary, revived from my trip to India back in 2007. This second part details my solo travels during the last three weeks or so. From now on, increasingly exhausted, my entries become terser and frustratingly light on detail.
Last Day in Chennai
Monday 3rd December
I woke up with a high fever and sore throat, listening to heavy rain outside – and I only had the clothes I stood up in. I’d have liked to have bought a brolly, but no luck.
Finally the Blue Elephant cafe, where I’d been yesterday opened, and the woman in charge, on hearing my voice, wouldn’t hear of my having a coffee – ‘Lemon and ginger for you!’ Mighty delicious – huge chunks of ginger brewing in squeezed lemon juice and hot water. I couldn’t face an Indian breakfast though, so it was eggs and toast. After that it wasn’t too long before I caught the bus back to Chennai, where fever or no fever, there was still shopping to be done, and packing to be done back at The Hotel from Hell.
I eventually made it to the station , where I planned to catch a train to the airport – a local service with a quick journey time. How was I to know that the train would fill and fill and fill and fill until people were hanging from the doorways in true travel doc. style? With me crushed inside feeling iller by the second? Actually, ‘crushed’ doesn’t begin to cover it: the only reason I didn’t fall to the floor was that it was physically impossible. At a certain point I couldn’t stand it any more, and somehow forced myself and luggage off the train, with everyone shouting behind me ‘No! No! Airport is 2 more stations!’. By then though I was sprawled across the platform, vomiting and vomiting as the train went off. A lovely man tried to help – he brought me water which he poured over me, washing my face and making me drink. A concerned crowd gathered, but by then I had lost all pride as I lay there, being repeatedly sick.
Two police women turned up, at as much of a loss as everyone else. Finally, they made a decision. They manhandled me, extraordinarily roughly, as if I were a somewhat dangerous demonstrator rather than a rather ill female tourist, and tried to bundle me onto a train. By yelling and weeping I managed to avoid the first train (later now, the trains were nearly empty again), but lost the battle in the end as they chucked me onto the floor of the next one.
At the airport station, we were joined by a handsome young male PC, who carried me ‘Gone with the Wind’ style up the stairs (shame I was way too ill to appreciate it) and heaved me into a rickshaw, where they all joined me, together with my luggage. Airport at last – or at least the airport medical centre. Here they finally examined me and decided I needed to go to hospital – I’d been muttering that for at least an hour. An ambulance appeared and I was dumped on a stretcher – bang! The ambulance driver revelled in using his siren – who wouldn’t if it meant actually MOVING in the streets of Chennai? And after arriving at hospital I don’t remember much of the rest of the day. I think the Consulate was told, and dealt with the fact I could no longer catch my flight home.
It’s rather astonishing to me that I even took two photos that day. But I did: one on the beach at Mamallapuram in the rain, the other of my very last auto-rickshaw driver in Chennai. My featured photo, of the central station at Chennai is courtesy of Unsplash, and taken by Ahamed Sameel.
Indian Friday: The Many Faces of Pondicherry
My diary, revived from my trip to India back in 2007. This second part details my solo travels during the last three weeks or so.
The Many Faces of Pondicherry
Thursday 29th November.
I was very greedy today! Up early to get the cool of the day, and found myself passing ‘Just Bread’. I thought I couldn’t leave Pondicherry without having a continental breakfast, so I did. Orange juice, pain au chocolat and coffee. Good actually. The only problem was that I’d ordered the hotel breakfast the night before, so I made an attempt at the (very good) potato-stuffed paratha and sambal, but didn’t finish it. Which didn’t go down well. Hence no lunch.
I walked up to the Botanical Gardens. Sheffield they’re not, but they’re not bad either and I had a pleasant wander. Coming away, boy it was hot, and I tried to cut corners and go down side streets to get to MG Road (Mahatma Gandhi Road). I kept on going down dead ends, and while it was interesting, it was also embarrassing to be down the Gip (a then down-trodden area of Leeds). I hated seeming like a voyeur.
In consequence, I got totally lost – I was well outside the French Quarter. When I finally fetched up on a main road I had no idea where I was and decided to get a rick. Just as well, I was miles off route. I asked him to take me to Mission Street/Nehru Road cross, and once there, I spotted some bag shops, so I got a wheelie suitcase! Hooray! Hooray! (My large rucksack had been getting increasingly stuffed and unwieldy). He was a nice guy, and measured it to see if it fitted hand luggage regs, and it did. By the way, I forgot. I went to the market early this morning and it as so different from Mysore – just people getting on with life and not a tout in sight – mind you, it was only just after 8.00 o’clock. Just one incident, pictured below.
The fish market, like so many parts of the market here in India, was often people selling just a few small fish- a bucketful. Not really the same as France I think, where you might choose instead to have a small corner to sell your strings of garlic, and your small amount of tomatoes or onions.
Anyway, after the suitcase, I also bought a salwar kameez – I am so hot! And back for a break, and a chat with the chain-smoking French woman who has my original room. I really couldn’t share a car with her to Chennai, which is where, like me, she’s off to next.
A few random sightings whilst out and about.
I wandered off after non-lunch to change money. Ha! ‘No, we are not changing money after 2.00 p.m.’ So I went to an agent and did it – a good rate actually. Best yet. Suddenly I couldn’t face walking home, rickshawing home – anything. I asked a posse of rickshaw drivers how much to the beach, and we struck a deal. After we’d set off, I asked my driver which beach he recommended and he turned round and headed about 8km. north, near Auroville. The beach was indeed lovely – not crowded. Very sandy and palm-tree-ish, and I really wished I’d bought a cozzie with me. I settled for sitting on a dead boat, and gazing out to sea. Oh, and collecting a few shells (I still have them on the chest of drawers at home).
After an hour, the driver, who had waited for me, brought me home and I packed quite a lot in the wheelie suitcase (Yes! Yes!). Further chat with the French woman wanting to go with me to Chennai (No! No!) and also to one of Cristelle’s staff. He speaks French and says there are no longer any French-medium schools in Pondicherry. He – and I guess he’s 40-ish – is the last generation not to be educated in English. What a shame.
I walked to the Bay of Bengal to say ‘Goodbye’and off to the Rendezvous for a meal. I’m here now.
Later, I added this:I’m beginning to lose momentum, mainly through extreme tiredness, and the heat combined with dripping humidity. I’m greatly looking forward to another CouchSurfing weekend in Chennai this time. I think the experience will be very different from last time, if only because my host is much nearer to me in age, and born and bred in India.
Indian Friday: A Day in Mysore
My diary, revived from my trip to India back in 2007. This second part details my solo travels during the last three weeks or so.
A Day in Mysore
Wednesday 21st November.
Time to say goodbye to everyone: people are off to all points north, south, east and west.
I took a rick to the station, and didn’t manage to change my ticket (Jobsworth in charge) But there was good internet access and I caught up a bit.
The market, if colourful, was a lot of hassle. Touts everywhere. Of unbelievable persistence. A youth selling flutes came down from Rs 280 to Rs 50, unable to take ‘no’ for an answer. And STILL I didn’t buy (This market remains one of my worst memories of India. I couldn’t enjoy a single second in peace). Later though, in a side street, I found a tailor and bought fabric , so that for Rs 600 (not much more than £5.00) I’ll have a custom made salwar kameez by 7.30 this evening.
Lunch was fun, at a local cafe where all the locals were, like me, enjoying the ‘small’ veg thali served on a banana leaf. A guy with a big canister kept doing the rounds, topping up the already big portions of all the diners. I declined sugar on my yoghourt-for-pudding, but my table mates didn’t, and sugar equal to the amount of yoghourt was spooned into their bowls.
I got quite comprehensively lost after lunch (easy to do. No street signs. Stop to look, and a rick driver is on your tail, or a vendor. Ask the way, and you’ll pick one of the few inhabitants who speaks no English).
But here I am at the Art Gallery. There’s supposed to be an Indian Dance Festival, and I’ve been here for about 40 minutes now, with lots of audience, mainly women, sitting patiently waiting … but … nothing.
And that was how it went really. A ‘warm up’ singer came along, and I quite enjoyed that, as well as watching the stage being set up with plush seating and flower garlands. I thought I’d leave at one point, but a man implored me to stay, saying it was starting in 10 minutes – which it did … But after the presentation of garlands to the Great and the Good, they moved onto – I dunno – soliloquies, perhaps poetry, impenetrable – to me anyway – so I did go.
And got a rickshaw to FabIndia which has lovely simply styled stuff, so I got a salwar kameez, a blouse, and a kurta for Malcolm.
Rick back to Om Shanti – my driver looked as though he’d just got a place at Oxford: all preppy glasses and smart casual shirt and trousers – perhaps he has! Anway, he was the first person who knew where Harding’s Circus was. Where I had my first disappointing meal: cabbage vadi with some trimmings and a lassi. Expensive for what it was. The last time I use Lonely Planet!
Ran into a young man, Samir, a teacher. We got ito conversation and he took me to the funfair. ‘I no try funny business. You – old lady – like my mother. Me – like your son’ That went down well. But we were in a public place and it was indeed fine. He took me round the funfair because it I’d noticed all the lights – it was quite fun. Then a rick to the market to collect my salwar kameez. Then, inevitably, to his friend’s uncle, and Ayurvedic practitioner, where I did indeed buy some oils (they were brilliant and lasted me ages). A rick home was produced and we said our goodbyes. Market salwar inevitably disappointing: FabIndia’s – not.
My featured photo was taken at the station. Those schoolgirls have just dismounted from that autorickshaw to hurry off to school. You might be able to see the rickshaw still has several passengers within. The schoolchildren I saw were always smartly dressed. Definitely no customisation of uniforms, with rolled-over skirt waistbands or heavily-adjusted ties, as here in the UK.
Indian Friday: A ‘Free’ Day in Mysore
Time in London, time in Spain. One way or another, I’ve neglected Indian Friday for several weeks. Time to take over where I left off, reproducing verbatim the diary I kept during a month in India – rather a long time ago.
A ‘Free’ Day in Mysore
Tuesday 20th November.
Our free day. Laura and I had decided to go to the sandalwood and silk factories, but then it turned out so had Mark and Peter, and they had already engaged Snake, the driver who had brought them home the night before. Naturally, Snake soon produced his brother Kumar for our use, and we set off, insisting on the ride being metered. Once we arrived at the factory the brothers had of course come up with A Plan. Rs 500, and we were theirs for the day. Not a bad idea, considering all we wanted to do. So …after they’d warned us not to use the official shop – too expensive, they knew better places – in we went. Mark had to sign us in (Being tall, fair and a Good Sort of Chap he was obviously in charge.) with all the contact details we could think of.
Then we were taken in by a Government Guide. He had his spiel and by gum he was going to stick to it. Questions were invariably met with ‘I will speak later’, and if we wandered away from some imaginary blue line we were instantly shepherded back: ‘Please!’
The factory was barely functioning because it’s just pre-season. Sadly, we weren’t allowed to take photos of the Dickensian scenes of clerks at desks in impossibly large dusty offices. The only real action was in a roomful of elderly men bundling up sticks of incense for marketing. Our officious guide warned us – and we believed correctly – that we shouldn’t be taken in by rickshaw drivers as anything not sold through Goverment agencies was likely to be highly diluted. So we went to the official shop. Verdict: it’s so bad it’s good.
Off to the Silk Emporium – not the factory as we had wanted: but after our last experience we didn’t care.
Then it was Chamundi Hill and the Sri Chamundeswari Temple. It’s about 12 km. from Mysore, and the theory is to walk with the faithful up the 1000 steps to the top. Kumar and Snake poo-pooed this idea and said we would do only the last 300. It turned out they were right. They dropped us off at Shiva’s bull, where like it or not you had to buy a flower garland to present, and receive a white bindi forehead marking. Laura and I declined the yellow holy oil. On the way up, we were beseiged by children, some of whom were beggars, but others just wanted to practice their English. At the top, there were massive queues for the temple, so we declined, and juggled with the usual bazaar which is an ever-present feature of tourist and holy sites. A funeral in progresss would in any case have limited our ability to sightsee.
Down we went, and Snake took Mark and Peter for lunch. Laura and I had asked to go to FabIndia. The clothes shop Kumar took us to wasn’t it, but it was excellent and we were sorry not to buy.
Lunch was at the Viceroy, which looked quite posh, much to Laura’s and my disappointment – we prefer spit and sawdust, But it was excellent, and cheap too. We only spent Rs. 250 a head on a variety of fresh and tasty chicken and veg. dishes and beer for the lads.
Then the Maharaja’s Palace. We engaged the services of yet another bossy guide, and I was fined RS. 20 (that’s about 25p) for smuggling my camera in. Peter paid it for me, but then Peter had smuggled his camera in and not been spotted. I did get to keep my camera though.
The guide regaled us with tales of past Maharajas, and the palace itself, and compared the many C-grade pictures with the Mona Lisa: ‘Look! The eyes follow you everywhere!’ Apparently the palace is the most beautiful place in the universe. Well, pretty good, but let’s not exaggerate here. He busily kept us in line, shooed away any tourists who had the temerity to listen in. Later, when allowed to use our cameras, he instructed us exactly where to stand to get the best shots.
Then the market. We found ourselves taken to a house where incense sticks were being made, and where we found Christine and Cindy too. We didn’t buy, and suddenly Mark and I had had enough, so Snake took us home, and Laura and Peter on for further shopping.
Dinner was a surprise for Simon. Cindy had booked a private upstairs room and we had a jolly evening sharing a final meal before we all went our separate ways the following morning.
PS. WP’s AI Assistant, in its wisdom, suggests the following tags for this post: photography; YouTube; diabetes; Detroit; Maldives …
From Pyrenees to Pennines 
You must be logged in to post a comment.