There are no straight lines in nature … waste not want not because every cloud has a silver lining … apart from the ones that are …
And if it looks alike it must have the same cause or at least be related somehow … rhino horns and willies … it’s obvious … or not.
Glimpsing parallel universes … through the looking glass.
An escapee from the set of a 60’s star trek episode. Just after this, I picked it up and, with much affected huffing and puffing, threw it at a reptilian alien who disagreed with me.
Graphics and … Caligraphy
Exploring, wandering, clambering across Porth Ledden just below the Cape …
An impromptu, innocent and gentle crepuscular walk in the grounds of Trelissick turns into an unexpected action movie plot point: a monstrous kraken hauls itself from the mire and lumbers, clicking and creaking and groaning, fingers its way across the sward … and we run … and I tip my camera over my shoulder in the hope of … and we are free … well, derrr …
And then today I was wandering across the apocalytic wastes around Geevor and was reminded of the obsessively claustral, sepulchral aesthetic of the geological vampires of our recent past.
Friends who’ve come here say: it’s not pretty — no; it’s so frighteningly, dangerously hard — yes; it doesn’t let you forget, does it — no; but it still slips its mineral veins deep into your soul like brittle mycelium — oh yes.
And wherever you go, the Bucca are watching …
You can fly to the furthest reaches of the globe and fuck the future of our world, and ignore the politics and the ecology and the economics and … and gawp at the natural wonders of the world and tick off your bucket list scores or you can look around yourself, here and now, orient yourself and choose to belong and see the beauty and the depth and the magic of the place where you stand … and …
cobble together a collage of 6 photos and try to say something about us, people, and the earth, and about the sea and history and hardship and pain and about home.
Because the premise is a lie … was always. Because family feuds are worse, civil wars not and because antisemitism is not exclusive when it comes to who the semites are … because Trump is, Netanyahu is … not …
And so people die. And live without hope … and now less … if that’s possible.
And not to aesthetisise anyone else’s pain, and not to ignore the ancient greek’s misogyny … why is this shit still going on … I’m not naive, just sad and angry.
… or Charon, ferries the dead across the Styx, in their little silver coffins, to the peace and quiet of suburban Hades.
And at six quid a head, it’s gone up a bit since the olden days.
The Doomstone, York Minster.
No shit …
18th century three-decker pulpit in St Mary’s.
Stopped off at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park on the way home.
Tony Cragg’s pieces from A Rare Category of Objects are almost designed to be photographed rather than engaged with.
See what I mean?
A pair of burgers from Matthew Day Jackson’s eerily abject Magnificent Desolation.
A crowd of graphite ware figures, all look the same to me, don’t shoot …
… part of Zak Ové’s 80 strong crowd — Black and Blue: The Invisible Men and the Masque of Blackness.
And on the way out through Jaume Plensa’s Wonderland — on the threshold of nowhere.
Asleep at the helm … a not-so-subtle Brexit reference … the wreck of the RMS Mulheim which ran aground in Gamper Bay near Lands’ End in 2003, when the chief officer tripped, fell, banged his head and passed out. She was eventually broken up and thrust into Castle Zawn where she remains.
A particularly dull photograph of the Long Ships Lighthouse on Carn Bras off Land’s End. That is … until you look at it full size and see the Scillies on the horizon. A full 28 miles away but clear as day … never had such visibility here.
Enys Dodnan … home of the handsome, fearsome black-backed gulls.
Slit arch at Nanjizal Cove.
Beautiful, filthy waterfall on to the beach.
On the inland route back to Sennen we foraged for deliciously ripe sloes, filling our empty lunch box with future christmas cheer. The fennel vodka is already maturing … nom nom nom.
Incredibly intense cornflower blue … cornflowers at the side of the path, Centaurea cyanus.
And eventually, safe back in harbour … long before sunset for once.
Absolutely the best pasty pie ever made … ever. Fankoo Cole.
Totally traditional in every way, except form … and better than any real pasty you can find anywhere.
I have been manfully putting this off for the last half hour but now …
I get to finish it off cold for lunch — even better.
Nom nom nom.
A Gatekeeper, Pyronia tithonus, a girl down from the moor.
I am gradually acquiring a very basic repertoire of common butterflies. So far, this year I have learned 5 new tricks. Good dog.
Almost as numerous as the Red Admirals — the Peacock, Inachis io.
It’s not nick-named the butterfly bush for nothing … Jeez.
A Small Tortoiseshell, Aglais urticae and then lastly a Speckled Wood, Pararge aegeria, up from the valley.
Luxuriating in a beautiful echo of summer down here.