Little baby swans out with their proud parents. Oh. My. God. The fluffyness factor alone… Cute overload….
The remarkable – and apparently huge – statues of the Kelpies have been a great success since they were erected by the canal near Falkirk, rapidly becoming a landmark as well as an artistic installation. For a short time the original maquettes – the scale versions the actual statues would be based on – are on show in the West End of Edinburgh’s New Town, quite striking even at this scale. I’m looking forward to eventually seeing the full scale versions at some point. As ever, click on the pics to view the large versions on my Flickr.
Quick shot from top deck of the bus to work as it was paused at the lights – this it Tom Gilzean, fundraiser extraorindaire and well-kent Edinburgh character. Mr Gilzean is a veteran in his mid 90s, yet is regularly at his post, usually outside the old Jenners Department Store on Princes Street, right across from the towering Scott Monument (I’m sure the statue of Sir Walter Scott looking across the road to him approves of his diligent work). He’s raised over £100,000 for charities, quite remarkable, as he is seen on Princes Street, medals polished, a charity collection box in each hand rattling away.
Petrol stations seem to be a vanishing species these days around UK towns, I’ve noticed several go just in the last couple of years near where I live, unable to compete with the large petrol stations attached to so many supermarket chain stores these days.
This one is on the Cumbernauld Road by the dual carriageway towards Glasgow, just as you come off to Chryston and Muirhead. I noticed it a few months ago when I was visiting dad and we passed by, this particular day I remembered it was there in time to get dad to pull over so I could get some shots.
Usually when petrol stations close down the pumps and the underground tanks are removed pretty quickly – they have to go and the site needs to be cleaned up before the rest of the demolition then any new structure taking its place. So while it is not uncommon to see a closed former filling station, they are rarely more than weed-choked concrete forecourts and a boarded up building. This one, I noticed though, still had its petrol pumps, which is unusual for those to be left in place for any length of time, so I wanted to get a few photos while they were still there, rusting away, the filling hoses and nozzle lying like contented snakes soaking up the sun. The light was strong that day so perfect for bagging a few shots of urban-commercial dereliction before it gets demolished.
Couldn’t resist a perspective shot – the three pumps in the front all lined up, and if you click the pic to go to the original on my Flickr and check the larger size you will see there is actually a fourth pump at the back of the station, lined up with these:
The once bright, jolly blue paint is peeling off, the metal oxidising
Someone had wrenched open the inspection panel on the front of one pump, as if to “disembowel” it, exposing the mechanics within, the wiring, hoses and pumps, with even the serial numbers and inspection stickers still all clearly visible and legible:
View from the back of the abandoned Crowood Filling Station
The rusting petrol pumps seemed to be like commercial tombstones marking a form of business that just couldn’t evolve to keep going in the cruel and merciless, ever-changing marketplace
Even the metal sign listing different tyre pressures for various models of car was decaying, rust now obscuring almost all of the information, only the Michelin logo and the smiling face of Bibendum still clearly visible on this abandoned place:
No, I don’t really know why, but I just felt quite compelling to document this site with a few photos – as I said, rare to see one closed for any length of time and still having all the pumps etc still in place, and of course it’s only a matter of time before it will be gone, so was good to grab a bright day to take a few photos before it vanishes some day.
Seventy one years ago today, on the beaches of Normandy, ordinary, everyday blokes from Britain, America, Canada, France, Norway, Poland and more walked into legend. Not some semi mythic great heroes like Achilles, these were regular men, bakers, plumbers, butchers, bank clerks, called on to do something extraordinary, while behind the lines who knows how many Resistance fighters fell, vanished in the dark, shot down during vital sabotage missions to help the landings, or worse, taken alive to face certain torture and only then death. Ever since I first read about it as a wee boy I’ve never been able to quite grasp the sheer bravery and desperation and terror of that day – impossible for us to really imagine what it was like to be in a small landing craft, rolling in the waves, men throwing up, seasick and also terrified at what was to come, shells and bullets exploding, the metallic clank as they hit the sides of the ship. Then the thump as the craft hits the sands, the large, flat bow door falls down, exposing the men within to withering fire from concrete gun emplacements, and they still run forward, into that fire, some of them never even making it out of the water, more would make it, some marching into battle under the sound of the bagpipes, like something you’d make up for a film or book, but it actually happened.
And I’ve never been able to imagine what it must have been like on the other side – for every die-hard Nazi zealot there must have been a dozen men who were there because they were made to be there, and as with the Allied side many wouldn’t even really be men yet, just boys really, who hadn’t tasted life but had been shoved into the endlessly voracious war machine (you’ve barely lived yet but you’re old enough to die, son, get out there for the glory of the fatherland). Imagine being an eighteen year old recruit drafted into the army, waking up early, yawning, looking out of the slit of your pillbox and seeing the largest armada in history, sitting right off shore, the massive guns of US Navy and Royal Navy battleships pointing right at you. Imagine firing, firing, firing, the smell of cordite and fear in your enclosed fortification, the raw horror of knowing that those bullets chopping into the soft bodies of men bravely advancing up the beaches are being fired by you, you are sick with fear and horror at what you are doing but you can’t stop, and neither can they, and they keep coming, and you’re screaming inside your skull because you don’t want to die like that, please, god, mother, father, don’t let me die like these poor men I am shooting down, please make it stop, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to kill them, why am I here, how did this happen…
And then, away from the bullets and shells and blood, but never away from the fear, the home front, the families. Where is my son, my father, my uncle, my brother, my husband on this day? you know they are on active service but they can’t tell you where – loose lips sink ships – and you wonder if they are among the thousands storming the blood-splashed shores of Occupied Europe? Are they among those brave men? Did they make it, did they fall, are they alright, are they horribly injured? And you simply wouldn’t know, trying to go through the daily routine but your mind elsewhere in worry all the long, long day, your heart skipping a beat every time you see a post office messenger coming towards your street, no, please, not that telegram, not for us, please no. Imagine living with that day in, day out, but especially on that day, and knowing you could do nothing about it, you couldn’t help your loved ones on the front, you couldn’t protect them, you could only hope and get on with life here, do “your bit” on the home front because that helps those at the sharp end of the spear. And on the other side, imagine the mother in Hamburg or Cologne, who had thought her young lad safe in his French posting, at least he’s not on that awful Russian front, then hearing of the invasion and her heart skipping like the mothers on the other side in horror and terror, my boy, what about my boy, is my boy alright…
(photo from one of my photographic heroes, Robert Capa, taken under fire during the D-Day landings)
We remember the big events like D-Day, the unbelievable heroism and acts of valour that were committed for the benefit of every generation that came after, and so we should. But we should always, always remember those events were made up of individuals, every one of them with hopes, dreams, fears and every one with someone back home in Berlin or Glasgow or Chicago or Toronto who lived in constant fear and hope for them. Some of them given the relief of a loved one returning home finally, when it was over, others that awful, awful telegram, “I regret to inform you…”. And the men and women who did come home, always marked by it, never the same, always bearing guilt because they got to come home, to marry, to have kids, to live, to grow old, and their friends never did. And they know their mates would want them to live that life, but still they’ll feel that guilt till the end of their days. And these ordinary people doing extraordinary things are what shaped our world, preserved our freedoms, so many individual people each doing their bit to create something enormous and world-changing. There are fewer now, each year, time slowly finishing what the war didn’t and claiming them, but those women and men who remain will be thinking on those friends who never came back today.
Walking home from work along the Union Canal a few days ago, gorgeous (if rather cool) spring evening. As I neared the lovely old Leamington Lift Bridge I could hear a guitar, and not just a guitar, but those long, slow, lazy, drawn-out notes you only get from playing slide. Crossed over the wee bridge and this chap was parked in one corner by the edge of the bridge, happily playing away as folks walked and jogged and cycled past on the towpath. Never seen anyone busking there before, there is a short subway underpass a few moments from this spot where musicians regularly play (the tunnel gives them some cool acoustics) but not here, so it was a rather nice surprise and brightened my amble home. Chatted with the guy for a moment or two, put a few shekels in his guitar case and took a couple of pics of him playing away in the evening light by the old canal:
Passing Scayles Music on Edinburgh’s Southside this afternoon, spotted these fabulous instruments – yes, Election Ukuleles!!!
Apologies for the reflections, normally put lens close up to glass to avoid reflections when shooting through a window, but no way to do that in this instance and still fit all of them in. As ever click on the pic to check larger versions on the Woolamaloo Flickr
Down near North Berwick over the Easter holiday weekend, for a change good weather coincided with a holiday. We’ve had nice, sunny days a few times recently (between some raging gales and storms and hail and snow and ice!) but they were still cold, often with seriously chilly winds even in the sunlight, but this weekend it was actually warm, the first proper spring-like weekend and happening over a holiday too, so understandably the beaches were busy along the coast as I went for a long walk with chum and his dogs. I paused to take several photos, and was quite pleased with the way this one came out, looking back along the curve of the beach, there’s a spit of low-lying sand which projects out and which the people in the foreground are walking on, but from this angle it looks almost like they are walking on the water, while the massive bulk of the Bass Rock rears out of the sea behind them.
I got a brief chance to catch up with an artist and comics creator I’ve known for years online but never met in person earlier this week. Oli East has created some fascinating and unique works based on his long walks, often following railway lines, and his new project sees him retracing the steps of Maharajah, an elephant from the 1870s. Bought from a circus Maharajah was to travel by train to his new home in a zoo in Manchester, but made his displeasure known in spectacular fashion (wrecking the freight train carriage he was to go in), so he and his keeper had to walk the whole way from Edinburgh to Manchester. I met Oli early in the morning in Edinburgh’s huge Waverley train station where he was getting ready to set out on his journey, creating sketches as he goes on his ten day walk following the same route as the elephant and his keeper, our very own comics Hannibal. The journey is being filmed for a documentary and the finished artwork by Oli will be shown as part of the third Lakes International Comic Art Festival in Kendal this autumn. (more details of Oli’s walk and project over on the FP blog)
Dusk, walking home along the old Union Canal near where the huge Scottish & Newcastle Brewery used to dominate the area (now all gone, the large brownfield site being redeveloped, just as the canal has been already). As well as new wharfs and new buildings at the end of the canal and holiday barges (and even a floating restaurant barge) there are also folks living year round on barges, using them as house-boats, right in the centre of the city – how cosy do they look against the gathering chill of evening fall?