Ullapool, now Tessa Base Camp

If I walk to the end of the verandah, this is what I can see. In the foreground, beyond the frame of this glimpse, a flock of ducks scabbling lazily as they settle on the grass in the dying light.

The shore is stone. The loch is sea. Dried weeds amid the pebbles. On the steps to the footpath a shattering of mussel and scallop shells, derelict barnacles and crushed mother-of-pearl.

A raised voice echoing around a corner. Such fury and vehemence. Don't you dare. Get back here.

To my left, an empty carpark. Two horses in coats, clopping in tandem across that space between buildings. Whingeing whinny and snort.

For a moment, I believe the supermarket not to stock bananas. For a moment.

There is no wind down by the water. The air is cold, too cold busy itself. The silence surrounding me as I stand in the daffodils is dense with space.

Upside-Down

Upside-Down, a photo by sirtessa on Flickr.

I don't think anyone or anything looks dignified when having a good thorough scratch.

Ed, En, BRAAAAH of Rooftops

Just one of the many closes that form the ribs from the spine of the Royal Mile.

In New York it was water tanks. In the UK, it's chimneys. Seriously. WTF.


And Edinburgh is just such a bloody pretty town, yet so full of winds and trees and twists it is near impossible to photograph.


How is it possible to be both orderly and ramshackle at the same time?


The monument to Sir Walter Scott, for contributions to Scottish literature, a revival of Scottish culture and raising interest and passion in Scotch identity.
A monument to a writer.
A writer.

Snow

There is a lot to be said regarding the inconveniences of snow, but being an Australian who did not make use of the ski season, I'm fairly certain it will take a great deal more snow and inconvenience before the novelty wears off.

It isn't only that it changes the whole world around you, changing the mood and flavour of any environment, nor how pretty the flakes are as they fall, although of course I love these qualities as well.

What I love best is how tactile an experience snow is. I love walking on snow, the way it crunches and crackles so satisfyingly underfoot. It has a wonderful give and at the same time, a perfect firmness as well. The way it moulds so perfectly to the pattern of any sole is just a little bit ridiculously delightful, and should I retrace my steps I can't help but examine all my footprints and be pleased and proud of their crispness. Except when I drag my heels, which is often it would seem. And, oh! The sound snow makes when tromped upon! I love it! The crunch, creak, grind, crackle, squeak and squawk, I love it! The same way I loved cracking acorns in Wilmington, and I stomp on gum cups back home, and curly dried bark.



I don't actually like touching snow. It is, unsurprisingly, very cold.

Snow is a storyteller. Today I went for a wander through Nottingham, and found a bowling green locked away and that square of unbroken white was asking to to be written upon. By birds, by rabbits, by dogs and by me.

When snow is fresh, it makes us explorers and pioneers, treading where no one has trod before.

Bargain: The World's Smallest Violins

For all the pity you don't feel.

We Are Expecting You, Welcome

Old Chinese brush holder, porcelain.

Beneath the Wind, Above the Snow

He: in the cloisters, with open book

The 365 Project

As with a great many other people, on the first day of the new year I started upon the 365 Project, the purpose of which is to take one photo every day for a year. Which, you know, I'm tooling around in exotic locales, this isn't exactly a challenge.

Posting one photo per day, however...

If you are interested, the photos are going up on my flickr account here.

My own self-imposed rules:

1. iPhone photos do not count.
2. The photo must be taken on the day (forgiven if unable to upload on the day).
3. No doubling up with posting on the blog.
   

The Birds of Reyjavík

"Forever let this place be a cry of despair..."

It was a beautiful day, such an unnaturally beautiful day.

And yet without decoration.

The Neues Museum was born from the destruction of the old. Bombed in February 1945, the greatest of treasures were safely hidden in the zoo, and all else was incinerated and crushed.

The old museum lives in the new, with salvaged pieces of ornamentation pressed into the walls where they would have been, surrounded by new and blank plaster, so that the ghost of that majestic hall lives superimposed in splinters and fragments over the present day.

There are bullet holes in the walls that did not require replacing



The story is not only in the contents of the rooms. The foundations have memory.

little lights, a little light

I went walking, and found a little galaxy. I took a slice of time and froze it into a visual representation, which I then converted into 0s and 1s, and now I am putting it here, for you.

In the key of Nürmberg Durnk

Free wifi is awesome, but generally not made for heavy use. The wifi at the Rothenberg hostel freaked out at any sort of uploading, and the wifi here in Nürnberg bitchslapped me hard when I tried to upload another video bloq. Hopefully the hostel in Berlin is a bit more forgiving, otherwise you'll just have to be patient.

At any rate, when I left the hostel this morning it was to discover that a lovely dusting of snow had stopped by over night, making a ridiculously pretty town even prettier. I cursed it a mean streak while schlepping my stuff to the station.

No snow in Nürnberg, still cold enough to warrant my rabbit hat and scarf. (The downside to wearing a real fur hat, I have discovered, is that should you wander about in the rain, it will begin to smell exactly like wet animal. Gross.) I made an effort to go to Albrecht Dürer's Haus, as there is only one guided tour in English per week, which happened to be today. I was initially somewhat wary to discover it was a costumed guided tour, being led by Aqnes Dürer, Albrecht's wife, but those doubts proved entirely unfounded. "Aqnes" was exceptionally interesting and informative, without ever being twee.

Because I forgot to eat for 12 hours (THIS IS WHY I SHOULD NOT TRAVEL ALONE) I didn't have presence of mind to do any filming in the house. Poot. Managed some okay photos though.



This is a reconstruction of Albrecht's printing press, a reconstruction made possible as he had made a drawing of the press with such detail that it was practically a plan with measurements and instructions. The press is capable of exerting a ton of pressure. Which is alarming, to be honest.



One ton of pressure makes a pretty crisp print.



LETTERS. See that font? I can hear all the hipster designers of the world turning their pity and condescension on. HE'S THE MASTER, NOT YOU.



There was also a copper etching press set up, which was being used to create prints. They'd done up copies of Albrecht's more renowned images, which you could purchase signed by the printer if you so desired. A copy of a copy? I eyeballed the rhino - I have a great fondness for that rhino, but passed.



Albrecht is well known as being the first to do a sort of realist study of nature. This cabinet was full of bits and pieces from the wild; here a deer, beneath deer antlers.



Jars of pigment powders. The process necessary for obtaining some of these colours was staggering. To be a painter was a luxury, I must say. 8,000 sea snail shells from around India for a gram of puce-like pigment powder to be bought in Nürmberg.









There was a massive print of a medieval map on display, to show where the various ingredients for pigment powder were obtained. Australia did not exist as an idea at this point, and the Americas were only a vague line down the left. China did not appear to be well known, but I was surprised to see "Thebet" present.

Afterward I wandered around in a haze of low blood sugar. Nürmberg is a farçe of both the old and the modern.

A window in Vík, post-sandwich

sun so slow to set