Archives for the month of: November, 2018

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This large tree by the lake is one of my favourites. I walk past it quite often but I’m not sure what it is. It might be an ash. More things I don’t know: why some trees have mossy branches while others don’t.

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A picture I took on a dark, foggy day of a bit of the cliff behind our house.
And below, a shadow and reflection on the kitchen ceiling panelling.

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The bright reflection is made by the black ceramic cooktop and the shadows are of a light fixture, some wiring, a big round terracotta bowl and the metal pipes of a rack it’s sitting on.

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In the middle, the metal gate into the meadow by our house. It’s for tractors, cattle and horses; to the left is the wooden V-shaped passage for people and dogs. It’s too narrow for cattle to escape through, that’s why it was built, but it’s a bit of a squeeze and I’d prefer a proper stile with steps. So anyway, the farmer who rents the meadow for the summer took the gate away when the cows went home last week and now we can simply walk straight in. But Topsy, who is as absent-minded as I am, ignored the new opening and continues to use the narrow V-shaped wooden thing to get through.

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Orhan Pamuk has written an article in the New York Times about his friend the Armenian photographer Ara Güler, who just died. The pictures show Istanbul of the 1950s with its unusual wood and stone houses and black, streamlined American cars. I’ve never been there but I will even if it’s no longer quite as he depicted it.