It's not the critic who counts...

Press On – No matter what they say to you
It’s not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or when the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worth cause; who at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who at the worst if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.
Theodore Roosevelt

The above is attributed to former US President, Theodore Roosevelt, the speech writer doesn't get a credit, they never do, and I find that the speech writers generally got the main essence of such 'phrases' from other sources. the greatest source for most speech writers and indeed, speech makers, is usually Dr Samuel Johnson, the first man to write a lexicon, dictionary, of the English language.
Why am I writing this? Guess I am fighting an uphill battle right now in trying to get everything back on track after a succession of 'derailments' and need a ready reference for me to log on to so I remember that, at the very least, I am giving it a go, no matter how badly, and I will get there. for sure, I will get there and so will you, as long as you think 'I can' and never ever give room in your thinking to the phrase 'I can't'.

Industrial Decline, Social Destruction

When ever I go to the UK there is a place that is, for me, a must visit. Dungeness in Kent.

It is unique in almost every respect and if there is a place that should NOT be judged on first impressions, Dungeness is it.Sitting on the 'corner' of Romney Marsh, it first appears to be a remote and desolate place. Numerous small shacks, many seeming on the verge of collapse, sit in the shadow of the colossus of Dungeness Nuclear Power Station that dominates this headland, the old and new lighthouses seem to add to the bleakness of a this flat, windswept landscape that is devoid of trees and, away from the single tarmac road, it is difficult to trudge across the loose shingle, scattered with redundant, decaying fishing boats and machinery, which the headland is made of.

However, Dungeness is a true place of beauty. It has a diversity of wildlife, both fauna and flora, much of which can only be found here. The RSPB nature reserve is a stop over for migrating birds and a winter shelter for many species.

It has a rich and colourful history including horror stories of piracy and smuggling and a tradition of the community making a living from the sea.

Sadly, the local community is in decline. The numerous shacks were home to generations of fishermen but are increasingly becoming weekend retreats and holiday homes, commanding prices beyond the reach of the local people.

The fishing industry, which this and many other coastal communities depend on for their livelihoods, has for years been dominated by big business and the decline of the beach launch fishing fleets has been exacerbated by catch quotas and controls imposed by politicians and bureaucrats. (A ridiculous strategy when one considers that any excess numbers of fish caught have to be thrown back into the sea, ridiculous because the fish being thrown back are already dead).

Many people across the Marsh are employed in the Nuclear Power Station, this is now in the process of closing. Its two reactors are being decommissioned, the first is already being subjected to this and the second will be shut down in the next few years.

The local 'born and bred' population want a new reactor built within the compound of the existing Power Station. There is ample room with in the Stations perimeter wall for this without any expansion. The 'incomers' and 'distant politicals' have objected to this proposal and many hundreds of people will be unemployed in the area.

What has been built on the Marsh is a Wind Turbine Farm. How the heck people have become believers and worshippers of Wind Turbines is an absolute gob-smacker for me. Hideous eyesores which are always erected in the most beautiful locations with an ugliness visible for miles around, that spend more time idle than working, incredibly inefficient, producing no where near enough electricity for current needs let alone the future demands that are increasing daily and do nothing for local employment, the local economy or the environment. The latter on the basis that raw materials are extracted from the ground with the associated environmental damage and pollution that produces. The transportation, the manufacturing process etc etc etc.

Another large employer on the edges of Dungeness is Lydd Airport, this airport is ideally located for flights to and from the continent and again, 'incomers' and 'distant politcals' fight against the locals desire for an expansion of services at the airport, essentially destroying employment opportunities for the local population.
Napoleon dismissed England as a nation of 'shopkeepers'. Wellington and Nelson disabused him of this notion, however, England is indeed becoming a nation of 'shopkeepers'. A nation of service providers who will soon have no one to provide a service to or for. This nation, or more correctly, this Island, has been kept afloat by financial institutions that have collapsed into greed and selfishness, kept alive only by money borrowed by the government against tax revenues of the future, a future that is looking increasingly bleak for those of us on the wrong side of the social divide, particularly when the tax revenues diminish due to greater unemployment and an ever increasing social support requirement.

Despite everything, Dungeness is truly a place a beauty, if one is an artist or photographer, Dungeness has a unique light, a unique environment, a unique beauty that will easily be found if one follows the principal rule of art... Look and See.

No Words Needed

No words are needed, in my humble opinion, the man is pure class.

Ivy in a Dead Tree

Much has been written, over the years, about a small rural town in the Limousin region of France I recently visited.
Much of this written material I have since read, trying to make sense of what happened. Trying to get a broader, more rounded, clearer picture of what happened. Trying to...

I don't know. I wanted to weep but I was too angry. I wanted to speak, but was struck dumb.

Oradour sur Glane is the small town I visited, as I approached the place along a modern high road I glimpsed some of the stone buildings through the trees. Roofless stone buildings.

This small rural town is written in history as the scene of an atrocity committed by the Waffen SS in the closing months of the second world war. It is said, written, that on a Saturday afternoon, the 10th June 1944 to be precise, a battalion from this notorious regiment sealed off the town, then instructed all the inhabitants to assemble in the town market place for an identity check.
Once there, the identity check never took place, the women and children were taken to the town church and ordered to stay there for their own safety.
The men were split in to smaller groups and placed in various small barns and workshops in the town centre.
Once this was complete, every man, women and child was killed. Machine gunned then burned.
Once the killing was completed, every building had hand grenades thrown in and was set to fire. The entire village was destroyed.

247 women died. 205 children died. 190 men died.
A total of 642 men, women and children died in the space of a little over two hours.
A few people managed to escape the carnage. They were able to tell what happened and, following the war, a special military court was convened in Bordeaux.

Why did I want to weep but I was too angry?
To get in to the town I had to enter through a sleek modern visitors centre full of smiling tour guides with a multitude of souvenirs and mementos for sale at extortionate prices. Entry to the town itself is free, to access the visitor centre there is an admission fee.

Why did I want to speak, but was struck dumb?
I wanted to ask. Why was there no explanation of what happened on the day by the soldiers? Why it was done? Why the Waffen SS arrived, sealed off and destroyed a town and its people then left? They did arrive in villages and carry out identity checks. They did apprehend and execute men publicly when resistance activity took place, but never before had they killed the population of and destroyed, an entire town. The tour guides and staff would countenance no questions that wavered from the official line. Would not let any doubt or desire for understanding challenge the prescribed circumstance.

There is no doubt that an horrendous, barbaric, event took place in this town. There is no doubt the Waffen SS were party to it. However, for me, I want and need to know more. I want and need to understand.

Heed Not The Critic

Press On – No matter what they say to you

It’s not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or when the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worth cause; who at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who at the worst if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.

Theodore Roosevelt

The above is attributed to a former US President, Theodore Roosevelt, the speech writer doesn't get a credit, they never do, and I find that the speech writers generally got the main essence of such 'phrases' from other sources, the greatest source for most speech writers and indeed, speech makers, is usually Dr Samuel Johnson, the first man to write a lexicon, dictionary, of the English language.

Why am I writing this?
For me really, need to crack on and lacking a bit of enthusiasm, for want of a better description, so having this as a ready reference on the Internet, I can remind myself to give the critics, those who sit on their backsides doing nothing but bemoan the TV and people that do things, those that hide in crowds in bars and restaurants snickering and gossiping about the things they lack the balls to do, those that go to the dinner parties and social gatherings to create an image instead of creating something, anything, of substance beyond an impression... to give them all the finger {:-))

Well F@ck Me, A Talking Pig!

Being in a city is like being in heavy rain to me. Everyone rushes about without making eye contact. They all are going some place else. When they do stop they're crammed into the same little spaces, the choices of what to do are, really, quite limited and it's generally oppressive and restricting.
Now the rain has eased off here maybe I can get on and do some work.

I live about a third of the way up the Dordogne Valley from the coast, the Dordogne meets the sea at Bordeaux. Bordeaux, like all cities in my opinion, is just that, like all cities.I have never been able to fathom out why people want to spend a fortune on going to Rome, London, Paris, New York or any other city in any country on this planet.
They are all so diverse and multicultural now they have developed into clones of each other.
All you really need to do is go to your nearest home country city, find a pavement cafe (every city has these French inspired cafes now). Sit down with a drink, close your eyes and listen to the city go by.
If you're in Paris, tell yourself you're in London. If you're in New York, tell yourself you're in Rome.
It'll take just a few minutes before you will hear, possibly, every variety of language spoken go by you sitting in that pavement cafe. Open your eyes and look at the people, every nationality you can imagine. The traffic, every brand from around the globe.

Walk through the shopping districts. The shops in New York are the same shops in London, Milan, Moscow, Berlin, Paris...Restaurants, from a Chinese Take-A-Way to a Haute-Cuisine French Restaurant, you'll find them. People in traditional dress? From an Indian Sari to a Highlander Kilt. You'll find them.
Sky Scrapers? They have them in the desert now.
The Colosseum is impressive, if you get there first thing in the morning and are the first through the gate. After that, the crowds are so huge, the queues so long, all you ever see is other peoples heads or, for the children, other peoples legs!

Sadly, people want to go to Paris, Rome, Madrid, etal so they can say to other people, "I've been to Paris.." etc etc etc. I'm pretty much convinced it's an image thing. 'Been there, done that, aren't I great!'
Go to Bali for the sunsets, spectacular. You and three thousand other people crammed on the beach, beer or wine in hand, cameras going off like fire crackers. What joy and bliss, you really get a feel for the moment.
Miserable and cynical? Moi? Perish the thought.
If you want to experience countries, places, people and genuine culture, you really do need to get away from the cities. Get into the rural areas, the market towns, get to the fishing villages.In these areas the life is geared for the 'local' not for the tourist. The prices are not upped by 35% or more because the visitor doesn't know any better, they are pegged for the local.
People greet you with a genuine smile and are as interested in you as you are them.
They will help you find and show you, with pride, all there is to see of real interest in their area. In the majority of villages and small towns, the buildings are uncorrupted, unlike in cities where the facades are lost beneath commercial fascias and the insides gutted to make way for modern offices, sleek shopping displays and chic homes.

They are not primitive by any stretch of the imagination, in all probability the conditions, services, and comforts far exceed anything you will find in any city simply because it isn't designed for the tourist, it is designed for the local population and the local population are the true business for the non-city locations, the repeat business. The local population is the true culture of a country and the local population will welcome you and share with you, their time, their knowledge, their food, even their homes.
Now I've ranted about cities, I should justify my views of the more rural locations I'm singing the praises of. I will. As part of the Red Frame Journey, I'll tell you about the places I visit too, so if you venture down this way, at least you'll have an insight of the places the travel guides don't tell you about. Some of them are truly wonderful.
Now, to work. So which way will I go? I will go east, up river. My first ports of call are going to be Le Bugue and Le Buisson. Two small market towns, with genuine Farmers Markets selling everything from local produce to livestock to farm machinery and just six kilometers from where I sit writing this blog.
Every time I go to a Farmers Market I always think of a joke my elder brother told me about the Three Little pigs....
A teacher was reading the story of the Three Little Pigs to her class. She came to the part of the story where first pig was trying to gather the building materials for his home. She read ... 'and so the pig went up to the man with the wheelbarrow full of straw and said: 'Pardon me sir, but may I have some of that straw to build my house?' The teacher paused then asked the class: 'And what do you think the man said?' One little boy raised his hand and said very matter-of-factly ..'I think the man would have said - 'Well, f*ck me!! A talking pig!'

Remiss I Have Been

As the title says, Remiss I Have Been in not contributing to my blog.
Why So? I ask myself. Many reasons: My parents ill health. Putting together a new image library (see previous post). Re-vamping my own website (click this posts title to view it). Renovating my ancient house in the Dordogne Valley, (currently have half the roof removed and waiting for timber and run out of money to pay for it!). Plus many other mini minor issues that congregate in ones life when one is trying to reach a final goal, as I have no doubt you all feel as often as the next person.
None the less. Onward and upward we must go....
I need to take a trip, not want to on this occasion, Need To. Was going to fly but at my age, the arms are no longer up to it, so am going to drive instead.
The camping car, for those who have not given up on me and still read from time to time, has long departed. In addition to the minor fire calamity, the insurance company arranged for recovery people to take my old girl back to UK for repairs.
Said Recovery people collected my old wagon on the back of an enormous recovery vehicle, en-route to the UK for repairs, the driver managed to hit a bridge with it and the repairs were transformed in to an insurance write off in one simple move....annoyed? Me? Bloody incandescent more like!!!
The insurance company were as good as gold, (not) screwed me down to the last half cent and paid what they could get away with.
For the time being I am back with my very old Mitsubishi 4x4 (I love old things but not a lover of the antique bow-locks) which means I am back using my tent and sleeping bag, gone are the comforts of mobile shower, cooking facilities, toilet and in-built double bed, back are the aching bones, smelly armpits and digging holes behind bushes to crap when not travelling major routes... something I am always reluctant to do.
I am setting off in the next 24 hrs for the UK and plan to be there for no more than two weeks, will have camera gear and sketch books with me so will be do lots of imagery en-route, while there and on the way back (have been finding time for this scarce of late which has not helped my mood in any way shape or form) all of which will be loaded to the various locations it has to go to on a daily or bi-daily basis as I have other work to do too.
Now I have actually re discovered my blog, I shall endeavour to maintain the content as I once did and hopefully re-discover the work ethic that has escaped me for a while. Speak soon.