Nature writings
- Thread starter peapod
- Start date
hehehehhe I already have those tapes 
:wink: check this out henry, you can look at frank hurley photographs. 8) amazing!!
http://www.spri.cam.ac.uk/library/
ehm here is something else you might find interesting
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/shackletonexped/1999/
There is also a new book around called
shackleton's boat - the story of the james caird by harding mcgregor dunnett......soon we will be out of greenbacks henry :lol: :lol: :lol:
:wink: check this out henry, you can look at frank hurley photographs. 8) amazing!!http://www.spri.cam.ac.uk/library/
ehm here is something else you might find interesting
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/shackletonexped/1999/
There is also a new book around called
shackleton's boat - the story of the james caird by harding mcgregor dunnett......soon we will be out of greenbacks henry :lol: :lol: :lol:
peapod said:hehehehhe I already have those tapes
http://www.spri.cam.ac.uk/library/
ehm here is something else you might find interesting
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/shackletonexped/1999/
There is also a new book around called
shackleton's boat - the story of the james caird by harding mcgregor dunnett......soon we will be out of greenbacks henry :lol: :lol: :lol:
I've got a huge book with all of Hurley's pictures in it 8) . Incidentally, did you know that some of them were altered later? (it was normal at the time). For instance, the famous picture of the crew waving at the rescue ship? That was actually taken as Shackleton et al were leaving elephant island - the ship on the horizon was added later.
Keeps your links coming pea
As for runnig out of money - you can help there, by making that first million a little quicker ( :evil: guess what? I spent half an hour typing out a (i thought) smart, funny, wise, insightful response to that post, and then the site crashed on me! Don't you just hate it when that happens? )btw, when you do become a millionaire, you'll need a butler - can I just say in advance that I make a smoked haddock souffle to die for? And my English accent is bound to impress your new neighbours. :lol:
smoked haddock souffle to die for?
Well henry I would have to dead to eat that It sound diabolical :lol: :lol: :lol:
What is the name of the book that has hurley's photographs, I can probally order it through the library.
Well henry I would have to dead to eat that
It sound diabolical :lol: :lol: :lol: What is the name of the book that has hurley's photographs, I can probally order it through the library.
peapod said:smoked haddock souffle to die for?
Well henry I would have to dead to eat that
What is the name of the book that has hurley's photographs, I can probally order it through the library.
South with Endurance: Shackleton's Antarctic Expedition, 1914 - 17
(ISBN 074322292X ) 8)
:lol: Ps I'm glad you said that, I hate making souffle, especially fishy, smoky souffle. How about a nice Welsh rarebit for breakfast, then? :wink:
Welsh rarebit, yes that sound a little better, beer and cheese I think that is. :lol: I will order that book henry, thanks.
"Aliens live among us. They have big black eyes, speak in a strange high-pitched tongue, and glide through the air like little UFOs.
There is evidence that they consume massive quantities of nuts. Lots of them are out there. If you look up, you might see one, but generally they stay in a part of the world that many of us shun. And they come out only at night."
"Aliens live among us. They have big black eyes, speak in a strange high-pitched tongue, and glide through the air like little UFOs.
There is evidence that they consume massive quantities of nuts. Lots of them are out there. If you look up, you might see one, but generally they stay in a part of the world that many of us shun. And they come out only at night."
8)Winkler, huh? Ever seen a flying squirrel, P?
You'll never get this (we have nature writers in Britain too you know, although this one has been to Canada :wink: )
"At Lac Rene, large friendly trout suck at fingers proffered by girls perched on lakeside rocks. I like this place. I like it even more the following day as I drive down the majestic river valley of Cascapedia, empty for 100 miles apart from a few fishermen. When I stop briefly, three of them on a shingle bank beckon me over and sit me by the fire on which they’re grilling trout fresh from the river and brewing coffee. Along the densely-settled coastline of the Baie des Chaleurs, at every little creek a jetty’s been built, a harbour, with small fishing boats lined against the quay. Every other house is a poissonnerie, a craberie or a fumerie de saumon. The road drops suddenly down to the peninsula’s end at Perce.
Towns built around geological complexity - Salzburg for example, or Bonifacio at the southern end of Corsica - are thrilling, and this tiny resort at the uttermost end of gaspé is in their league. A craggy bluff of coarse red conglomerate dominates it, and is counterpointed by the 300ft-high fin of pink limestone, stippled with orangey-yellow lichens, sea-sculpted into arch and stack, that juts into the steeply-shelving bay. The two enfold a once-remote fishing village, the lapboarded, red-shingled and dormered cottages of which have been converted into resto-bars and subsumed into a welter of motels and pizza cabins.
The fish-rich waters that aided the survival of those who came from famine-haunted margins of Europe a century-and-a-half ago to settle here have brought other colonists. Out on Ile Bonaventure is the World’s second-largest and most accessible gannet colony.
I go out there, to the cliff-edge where these beautifully-evolved fishing machines nest. The path is lovely, verged with white-berried dogwood and the orange flowers of spotted touch-me-not, emerges from a lichenous forest of spruce and pine to the stink and noise of 100,000 nesting, jostling birds. “Arra, arra, arra.” they call, gutturally, continually, clashing beaks, fencing, stabbing, submitting, copulating. Clouds of them swirl above the sea, diving in groups, rapid-descending glints of white crosses, wings folded just before the entry, the percussive report, the plume of spray, the resurfacing with mackerel, herring, capelin in their beaks."
You'll never get this (we have nature writers in Britain too you know, although this one has been to Canada :wink: )
"At Lac Rene, large friendly trout suck at fingers proffered by girls perched on lakeside rocks. I like this place. I like it even more the following day as I drive down the majestic river valley of Cascapedia, empty for 100 miles apart from a few fishermen. When I stop briefly, three of them on a shingle bank beckon me over and sit me by the fire on which they’re grilling trout fresh from the river and brewing coffee. Along the densely-settled coastline of the Baie des Chaleurs, at every little creek a jetty’s been built, a harbour, with small fishing boats lined against the quay. Every other house is a poissonnerie, a craberie or a fumerie de saumon. The road drops suddenly down to the peninsula’s end at Perce.
Towns built around geological complexity - Salzburg for example, or Bonifacio at the southern end of Corsica - are thrilling, and this tiny resort at the uttermost end of gaspé is in their league. A craggy bluff of coarse red conglomerate dominates it, and is counterpointed by the 300ft-high fin of pink limestone, stippled with orangey-yellow lichens, sea-sculpted into arch and stack, that juts into the steeply-shelving bay. The two enfold a once-remote fishing village, the lapboarded, red-shingled and dormered cottages of which have been converted into resto-bars and subsumed into a welter of motels and pizza cabins.
The fish-rich waters that aided the survival of those who came from famine-haunted margins of Europe a century-and-a-half ago to settle here have brought other colonists. Out on Ile Bonaventure is the World’s second-largest and most accessible gannet colony.
I go out there, to the cliff-edge where these beautifully-evolved fishing machines nest. The path is lovely, verged with white-berried dogwood and the orange flowers of spotted touch-me-not, emerges from a lichenous forest of spruce and pine to the stink and noise of 100,000 nesting, jostling birds. “Arra, arra, arra.” they call, gutturally, continually, clashing beaks, fencing, stabbing, submitting, copulating. Clouds of them swirl above the sea, diving in groups, rapid-descending glints of white crosses, wings folded just before the entry, the percussive report, the plume of spray, the resurfacing with mackerel, herring, capelin in their beaks."
:twisted: No I don't know that one henry...fork over the name...I will add it to my list. You won't get this one
"The glaciers are rivers, the sky is struck solid, the water is ink, the mountains are lights that go on and off. Sometimes I lie in my sleeping bag and recite a line from a Robert Lowell poem over and over: "Any clear thing that blinds us with surprise.
I sleep by a cold window which I've opened a crack. Frigid air streams up the rock hill and smells of minerals. In a dream I hear the crackling sound that krill make under water. Earlier in the day the chunk of glacier ice I dropped into a glass of water made the same sound."
I will even through in a quote on the page
"Do you see that coming?" the old woman Arnaluaq asked.
"What?"
"That-out there over the sea. It is the Dark coming up, the great Dark!"
knud rasmussen
"The glaciers are rivers, the sky is struck solid, the water is ink, the mountains are lights that go on and off. Sometimes I lie in my sleeping bag and recite a line from a Robert Lowell poem over and over: "Any clear thing that blinds us with surprise.
I sleep by a cold window which I've opened a crack. Frigid air streams up the rock hill and smells of minerals. In a dream I hear the crackling sound that krill make under water. Earlier in the day the chunk of glacier ice I dropped into a glass of water made the same sound."
I will even through in a quote on the page
"Do you see that coming?" the old woman Arnaluaq asked.
"What?"
"That-out there over the sea. It is the Dark coming up, the great Dark!"
knud rasmussen
It was Jim (sometimes James) Perrin. He's very good. 8)
Was yours the woman who was struck by lightening? I'll name her by the morning :? , in the meantime who says the decline of our civilisation began with the Reformation and the rise of ‘a masculine strain of Christianity that denied the body and demoralized nature and its sovereign goddess’? (I think you'll know this persons poetry).
Was yours the woman who was struck by lightening? I'll name her by the morning :? , in the meantime who says the decline of our civilisation began with the Reformation and the rise of ‘a masculine strain of Christianity that denied the body and demoralized nature and its sovereign goddess’? (I think you'll know this persons poetry).
grgrgrgrgr..yes she was struck by lightening, thats probally why she is such a great writer :lol: :lol: :lol:
:lol: :lol: :lol:peapod said:grgrgrgrgr..yes she was struck by lightening, thats probally why she is such a great writer
Then it's Gretel Ehrlich, and another for my list Another Brit:
"Sometimes, bluebells act as pure memory. I have seen them growing in the very middle of Sussex fields, a faint line of that unmistakable hyacinth blue drifted through the meadow grasses. Why here? Why that slightly wavering line, as if drawn with a crayon across the slope of the field?
[URL=http://www.imageshack.us][img]http://img213.exs.cx/img213/1022/bluebells24du.jpg[/URL][/img]
Ah yes, of course, they are marking the route of an old hedgerow, dug out when the fields were rationalised thirty or forty years ago, but persistent despite everything that has been done around them.
Or even more remarkably, I have seen them in full flower on the Treshnish Isles to the northwest of Mull, surrounded by puffins, the Atlantic birds strutting and preening on the open Hebridean hillside, while the bluebells nod and blow beside them, perhaps the last remnant of a small piece of woodland that disappeared before anyone recorded it.
Or the knottiest of Welsh valleys, on the banks of Cumbrian becks, high in the Scottish Highlands, even on the ramparts of west country Iron Age hillforts: of course the bluebell is the flower of the UK.
At heart it belongs to woodland.
The British bluebell woods, if they were in some other part of the world, tucked away in the Balkans or some hidden valleys in the Tien Shan, would be the most famous of all botanical marvels. But because they are in our backyard, they were for a long time taken for granted.
Only in the nineteenth century did people begin to notice them much. Then, quite rapidly, the British fell in love with their flower, Keats near London, Tennyson in Lincolnshire, Gerard Manley Hopkins in Wales and William Barnes in Dorset all becoming enraptured with ‘the shaded Hyacinth, always Sapphire Queen of the mid-may.'
It is Hopkins who will remain the poet of the bluebell. More than the beauty of the individual flower, he noticed the wonderful, massed field of blue that the flowers create in the shade of a wood, ‘the level or stage or shire of colour they make hanging in the air a foot above the grass.'
That is something which no one had noticed before and remains at the heart of the bluebell's beauty. It is one of the miracles of this country: light pushes through in patches on to the green wood floor where the plants have just come into flower.
There are pools of last year's oak leaves still lying about. Next to them the thick green pad of bluebell leaves shimmers in the sunlight like a damask, high gloss in parts, folded over into dullness in others.
It is a half-lit green darkness and in it the glamorous and seductive eyeshadow presence of the bluebell's blue, a nightclub colour in the low lighting, beyond any sweet pink innocence the apple blossom can manage, is the sexiest and smokiest colour you will ever see in our landscape, a haze of Isfahan in the green woods of Britain.
Thanks for the bluebells henry 8) Its the simple things that count :wink:
"I am bound to praise the simple life,because I have lived it and found it good. When I depart from it, evil results follow. I love a small house, plain cloths and simple living. Many persons know the luxury of a skin bath, a plunge in the wave or the wave unhampered by clothing. This is the simple life direct and immediate contact with things, life with the false wrappings torn away. The fine house, the fine equipage, the expensive habits, all cut off. How free one feels, how good the elements taste, how close one gets to them, how they fit one's body and one's soul! To see the fire that warms you, or better yet to cut the wood that feeds the fire that warms you; to see the spring where the water bubbles up thats slakes your thirst, and to dip your pail into it; to see the beams that are the stay of your four walls, and the timbers that upholds the roof that shelters you: to be in direct and personal contact with the sources of your material life; to want no extras, no shields; to find the universal elements enough; to find the air and water exhilarating; to be refreshed by a morning walk; or a evening saunter; to find a quest of wild berries more satisfying
than a gift of tropical fruit; to be thrilled by the stars at night; to be elated over a bird's nest, or over a wild flower in spring. These are some of the rewards of a simple life" :wink:
Your turn 8)
8) Its the simple things that count :wink: "I am bound to praise the simple life,because I have lived it and found it good. When I depart from it, evil results follow. I love a small house, plain cloths and simple living. Many persons know the luxury of a skin bath, a plunge in the wave or the wave unhampered by clothing. This is the simple life direct and immediate contact with things, life with the false wrappings torn away. The fine house, the fine equipage, the expensive habits, all cut off. How free one feels, how good the elements taste, how close one gets to them, how they fit one's body and one's soul! To see the fire that warms you, or better yet to cut the wood that feeds the fire that warms you; to see the spring where the water bubbles up thats slakes your thirst, and to dip your pail into it; to see the beams that are the stay of your four walls, and the timbers that upholds the roof that shelters you: to be in direct and personal contact with the sources of your material life; to want no extras, no shields; to find the universal elements enough; to find the air and water exhilarating; to be refreshed by a morning walk; or a evening saunter; to find a quest of wild berries more satisfying
than a gift of tropical fruit; to be thrilled by the stars at night; to be elated over a bird's nest, or over a wild flower in spring. These are some of the rewards of a simple life" :wink:
Your turn 8)
YO YO edgie Well they are not my words, but your right they are beautiful as well as very true. 8)
Okay henry back to some nice stuff eh?? guess who
"Most people are on the world, not in it - have
no conscious sympathy or relationship to anything about them -
undiffused, separate, and rigidly alone
like marbles of polished stone, touching but separate...
How hard to realize that every camp of men or beast
has this glorious starry firmament for a roof! In such places
standing alone on the mountain-top it is easy to realize
that whatever special nests we make - leaves and moss like the marmots
and birds, or tents or piled stone - we all dwell in a house of one room -
the world with the firmament for its roof - and are sailing the
celestial spaces without leaving any track..."
Well they are not my words, but your right they are beautiful as well as very true. 8) Okay henry back to some nice stuff eh?? guess who
"Most people are on the world, not in it - have
no conscious sympathy or relationship to anything about them -
undiffused, separate, and rigidly alone
like marbles of polished stone, touching but separate...
How hard to realize that every camp of men or beast
has this glorious starry firmament for a roof! In such places
standing alone on the mountain-top it is easy to realize
that whatever special nests we make - leaves and moss like the marmots
and birds, or tents or piled stone - we all dwell in a house of one room -
the world with the firmament for its roof - and are sailing the
celestial spaces without leaving any track..."
Hey P., I know all about the father of conservation,John Muir. He's right, we should "do something to make the mountains glad". 8)
Little link for you: John of the Mountains
Here's what The John Muir Trust do in Scotland.
He's right, we should "do something to make the mountains glad". 8) Little link for you: John of the Mountains
Here's what The John Muir Trust do in Scotland.
Thanks henry that is a wonderful site. Have you done any tramping on the skye I did not know that muir was scottish, but it makes sense :lol: :wink: I will bookmark that and keep it, like all the other great things you have shown me. You do know henry that the scots invented the modern world, I have the book that says so. :wink:
I did not know that muir was scottish, but it makes sense :lol: :wink: I will bookmark that and keep it, like all the other great things you have shown me. You do know henry that the scots invented the modern world, I have the book that says so. :wink:I have been to Skye, peapod - what's more, Ill be there when you're on Queen Charlotte (looks great - more about that later). They have a world music festival there every summer, so I'll have a holiday music, dancing, new people, camping, mountains, the ocean, climbing, everything I like, really. I cannot wait!
:lol: :lol: btw I have a book that says the English made the modern world. And one that says the Irish did. And also one that says The Basques . I bet there are others, too (although I know about important Scots - peapod, for one ). I guess we all did it together. 8)
:lol: :lol: btw I have a book that says the English made the modern world. And one that says the Irish did. And also one that says The Basques . I bet there are others, too (although I know about important Scots - peapod, for one
). I guess we all did it together. 8):lol: :lol: :lol: true henry and I think that mine ancestors and your ancestors were great friends :wink: And my book is called how the scots invented the modern world, the true story of how western europe's poorest nation created the our world and everything in it. by Arthur Herman. :wink: