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Encántame os contos. Cóntame o teu ou dime Ola

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8th September 2014

I’m in London to take some wedding photos.
I had today, the day after the wedding,  free and as soon as I’d finished breakfast at the hotel I travelled to the Natural History Museum.
I just wanted to upload this photo to tumblr. I’m busy and I can only share this to tumblr during the short time this hotel lets me access free Wi-Fi. (30 minutes a day!)
Even once I’m back home in a few days I’m going offline for a bit, but I will be back and will try to use my time offline to catch up with messages I owe people.
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 |The Natural History Museum, London The United Kingdom I’m in London to take some wedding photos.
I had today, the day after the wedding,  free and as soon as I’d finished breakfast at the hotel I travelled to the Natural History Museum.
I just wanted to upload this photo to tumblr. I’m busy and I can only share this to tumblr during the short time this hotel lets me access free Wi-Fi. (30 minutes a day!)
Even once I’m back home in a few days I’m going offline for a bit, but I will be back and will try to use my time offline to catch up with messages I owe people.
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 |The Natural History Museum, London The United Kingdom

I’m in London to take some wedding photos.

I had today, the day after the wedding,  free and as soon as I’d finished breakfast at the hotel I travelled to the Natural History Museum.

I just wanted to upload this photo to tumblr. I’m busy and I can only share this to tumblr during the short time this hotel lets me access free Wi-Fi. (30 minutes a day!)

Even once I’m back home in a few days I’m going offline for a bit, but I will be back and will try to use my time offline to catch up with messages I owe people.


Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 |The Natural History Museum, London The United Kingdom

 ·  24 notes  ·  comments

4th September 2014

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4th September 2014

LCG to LHR
Although I wish I could fly from Galicia to London Luton, the airport nearest to my family, I can’t argue with the views you get as you join the queue to land at Heathrow. You cross the English channel and fly over the densely populated south-east of England, even getting to pass over central London. You can even recreate the opening titles of Eastenders in your head. Make sure it is only in your head though..
Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum, DumDumDum
I’d forgotten that I’d taken these photos with my iPod as the plane began to cross over northern Normandy and over the south of England. 
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 |LCG to LHR The United Kingdom
LCG to LHR
Although I wish I could fly from Galicia to London Luton, the airport nearest to my family, I can’t argue with the views you get as you join the queue to land at Heathrow. You cross the English channel and fly over the densely populated south-east of England, even getting to pass over central London. You can even recreate the opening titles of Eastenders in your head. Make sure it is only in your head though..
Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum, DumDumDum
I’d forgotten that I’d taken these photos with my iPod as the plane began to cross over northern Normandy and over the south of England. 
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 |LCG to LHR The United Kingdom
LCG to LHR
Although I wish I could fly from Galicia to London Luton, the airport nearest to my family, I can’t argue with the views you get as you join the queue to land at Heathrow. You cross the English channel and fly over the densely populated south-east of England, even getting to pass over central London. You can even recreate the opening titles of Eastenders in your head. Make sure it is only in your head though..
Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum, DumDumDum
I’d forgotten that I’d taken these photos with my iPod as the plane began to cross over northern Normandy and over the south of England. 
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 |LCG to LHR The United Kingdom
LCG to LHR
Although I wish I could fly from Galicia to London Luton, the airport nearest to my family, I can’t argue with the views you get as you join the queue to land at Heathrow. You cross the English channel and fly over the densely populated south-east of England, even getting to pass over central London. You can even recreate the opening titles of Eastenders in your head. Make sure it is only in your head though..
Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum, DumDumDum
I’d forgotten that I’d taken these photos with my iPod as the plane began to cross over northern Normandy and over the south of England. 
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 |LCG to LHR The United Kingdom
LCG to LHR
Although I wish I could fly from Galicia to London Luton, the airport nearest to my family, I can’t argue with the views you get as you join the queue to land at Heathrow. You cross the English channel and fly over the densely populated south-east of England, even getting to pass over central London. You can even recreate the opening titles of Eastenders in your head. Make sure it is only in your head though..
Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum, DumDumDum
I’d forgotten that I’d taken these photos with my iPod as the plane began to cross over northern Normandy and over the south of England. 
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 |LCG to LHR The United Kingdom
LCG to LHR
Although I wish I could fly from Galicia to London Luton, the airport nearest to my family, I can’t argue with the views you get as you join the queue to land at Heathrow. You cross the English channel and fly over the densely populated south-east of England, even getting to pass over central London. You can even recreate the opening titles of Eastenders in your head. Make sure it is only in your head though..
Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum, DumDumDum
I’d forgotten that I’d taken these photos with my iPod as the plane began to cross over northern Normandy and over the south of England. 
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 |LCG to LHR The United Kingdom
LCG to LHR
Although I wish I could fly from Galicia to London Luton, the airport nearest to my family, I can’t argue with the views you get as you join the queue to land at Heathrow. You cross the English channel and fly over the densely populated south-east of England, even getting to pass over central London. You can even recreate the opening titles of Eastenders in your head. Make sure it is only in your head though..
Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum, DumDumDum
I’d forgotten that I’d taken these photos with my iPod as the plane began to cross over northern Normandy and over the south of England. 
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 |LCG to LHR The United Kingdom
LCG to LHR
Although I wish I could fly from Galicia to London Luton, the airport nearest to my family, I can’t argue with the views you get as you join the queue to land at Heathrow. You cross the English channel and fly over the densely populated south-east of England, even getting to pass over central London. You can even recreate the opening titles of Eastenders in your head. Make sure it is only in your head though..
Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum, DumDumDum
I’d forgotten that I’d taken these photos with my iPod as the plane began to cross over northern Normandy and over the south of England. 
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 |LCG to LHR The United Kingdom
LCG to LHR
Although I wish I could fly from Galicia to London Luton, the airport nearest to my family, I can’t argue with the views you get as you join the queue to land at Heathrow. You cross the English channel and fly over the densely populated south-east of England, even getting to pass over central London. You can even recreate the opening titles of Eastenders in your head. Make sure it is only in your head though..
Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum, DumDumDum
I’d forgotten that I’d taken these photos with my iPod as the plane began to cross over northern Normandy and over the south of England. 
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 |LCG to LHR The United Kingdom
LCG to LHR
Although I wish I could fly from Galicia to London Luton, the airport nearest to my family, I can’t argue with the views you get as you join the queue to land at Heathrow. You cross the English channel and fly over the densely populated south-east of England, even getting to pass over central London. You can even recreate the opening titles of Eastenders in your head. Make sure it is only in your head though..
Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum, DumDumDum
I’d forgotten that I’d taken these photos with my iPod as the plane began to cross over northern Normandy and over the south of England. 
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 |LCG to LHR The United Kingdom

LCG to LHR

Although I wish I could fly from Galicia to London Luton, the airport nearest to my family, I can’t argue with the views you get as you join the queue to land at Heathrow. You cross the English channel and fly over the densely populated south-east of England, even getting to pass over central London. You can even recreate the opening titles of Eastenders in your head. Make sure it is only in your head though..

Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum, DumDumDum

I’d forgotten that I’d taken these photos with my iPod as the plane began to cross over northern Normandy and over the south of England. 


Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 |LCG to LHR The United Kingdom

 ·  18 notes  ·  comments

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wonderlalia replied to your post “wonderlalia replied to your photoset “King’s Lynn Minster. Where the…”

¡Parece un bombo de lotería! Qué curioso. Me imagino que sería más o menos igual de difícil de montar que la típica estantería de Ikea, sí. ;)

Sin duda. ¡Con la misma cantidad de blasfamía también!

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wonderlalia replied to your photoset “The British Museum & Britain as a museum Shamefully I had never…”

Hmm, train stations do seem to have a way of making people feel like Ford Prefects, even those of us who don’t experience the added complications of having a bicultural subconscious! The photos are stunning, though. I take note of the carrot cake. ;)

Thank you. How quickly you trust again! I know we disagree on desserts in general, but I liked the carrot cake here because it wasn’t too rich and with lots of Ginger. How do you like your carrot cakes?

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@fotoforays replied to your photoset “The British Museum & Britain as a museum Shamefully I had never…”

sigh… I know days like this. Trying to be enthusiastic or inspired, yet feeling disconnected or detached. The upside for you was some great photos and the ability to distill (some) of your true feelings into words. I like.

Thank you! :) I’ve spent so little time in cities in the last ten years I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that I find London “emotional”

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@marialugilde replied to your photoset “The British Museum & Britain as a museum Shamefully I had never…”

A mi tambien me pilló por sorpresa que cerrase todo tan temprano cuando fui a Londres el pasado Septiembre. Lo bueno que tienen es que son gratuitos, no como en España donde la cultura es solo para los que pagan por ella.

el problema es que pasa a mi en España también! Odio que muchos museos cierran justo después que llego en la mañana por autobús.

Qué aún los museos más importantes son gratis en el UK es impresionante de verdad. Cuando era un niño los museos de Londres eran caros.

 ·  6 notes  ·  comments

some-kind-of-nothingness:

You can tell a lot about a person by the type of music they listen to. Put your music on shuffle and write down the first 10 songs that come up. Then tag 10 people (or however many you’d prefer)! Don’t skip any songs!

        La música que escuchas se puede revelar mucho acerca de ti. Pon tu música a reproducción aleatoria y nota las primeras diez canciones que aparecen. Despues etiquetan diez personas(¡o cualquiera que quieras!) ¡No evitas ninguna canción!

  1. The Golden Path by The Chemical Brothers
  2. Sheer Heart Attack by Queen
  3. The Sound of someone you love who’s going away, and it doesn’t matter by The Penguin Cafe Orchestra
  4. In this camp by Midlake
  5. Bleached by Beccy Owen
  6. Bryn by Vampire Weekend
  7. Pink Moon by Nick Drake
  8. Dança dos Moscas Caxade
  9. Benvolgut by Manel
  10. Theme from M*A*S*H (Suicide Is Painless) by The Manic Street Preachers

If what the quote above is true I’d love to hear what you think theses songs say about me

con285  @wonderlalia @terranosollos @marialugilde @dinosaurlair catatonick unstartled—steppes wasnineteencalling chamallex waysofme ladyragnell miguelcalvosantos gregador hablamenchino faciesdestruens nexusenorion secretofadream

Reblogged from Some kind of nothingness

 ·  19 notes  ·  comments

3rd September 2014

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3rd September 2014

It Has No History
These photos are of a place near my parent’s house. In 1986 this area was at the very edge of development in Milton Keynes. The bridge  wasn’t yet built and nor was there any landscaping. There was only a hollow of sticky clay soil with a trickle of a stream. One night in 1986 my Dad took my sister and me along with one of my friends here to see Halley’s Comet through a pair of binoculars. As we stomped and twisted our heels our wellies wrote a story of frustration and disappointment in the clay soil.
In the British Museum’s collection of cuneiform tablets there is the earliest confirmed account of Halley’s Comet visiting the night skies above Armenia. Ancient text on clay housed in a museum: This is the very essence of history in the academic sense.
When I’m at home in Lugo I’m inside its Roman walls and within earshot of the bell that crowns an eight hundred year old cathedral. The question “What is History?” is answerable with a sweep of the arm or a pointing of the finger.
These structures are artefacts that link us in the present with the past. Its this kind of objective history that Milton Keynes lacks.
Sure, Milton Keynes has archeological sites and ancient monuments,but they no more part of Milton Keynes’s history than islands are a part of the lake that surrounds them.
However, when I’m in Milton Keynes; the town where I grew up. I might not be surrounded by the history as I am in Lugo, but I am drowning in subjective history
Milton Keynes as an entity is just shy of fifty years old. In a country like Britain where the age of cities, roads and buildings are measured in the thousands of years; fifty years might seem sole nothing, but fifty years is enough time for two generations to live fast and die young and in my case it’s enough time to have powerful memories and emotional connections to a location that’s that no longer exists
I can think of no other definition of history that’s so both profoundly subjective and universal.
It Has No History
These photos are of a place near my parent’s house. In 1986 this area was at the very edge of development in Milton Keynes. The bridge  wasn’t yet built and nor was there any landscaping. There was only a hollow of sticky clay soil with a trickle of a stream. One night in 1986 my Dad took my sister and me along with one of my friends here to see Halley’s Comet through a pair of binoculars. As we stomped and twisted our heels our wellies wrote a story of frustration and disappointment in the clay soil.
In the British Museum’s collection of cuneiform tablets there is the earliest confirmed account of Halley’s Comet visiting the night skies above Armenia. Ancient text on clay housed in a museum: This is the very essence of history in the academic sense.
When I’m at home in Lugo I’m inside its Roman walls and within earshot of the bell that crowns an eight hundred year old cathedral. The question “What is History?” is answerable with a sweep of the arm or a pointing of the finger.
These structures are artefacts that link us in the present with the past. Its this kind of objective history that Milton Keynes lacks.
Sure, Milton Keynes has archeological sites and ancient monuments,but they no more part of Milton Keynes’s history than islands are a part of the lake that surrounds them.
However, when I’m in Milton Keynes; the town where I grew up. I might not be surrounded by the history as I am in Lugo, but I am drowning in subjective history
Milton Keynes as an entity is just shy of fifty years old. In a country like Britain where the age of cities, roads and buildings are measured in the thousands of years; fifty years might seem sole nothing, but fifty years is enough time for two generations to live fast and die young and in my case it’s enough time to have powerful memories and emotional connections to a location that’s that no longer exists
I can think of no other definition of history that’s so both profoundly subjective and universal.
It Has No History
These photos are of a place near my parent’s house. In 1986 this area was at the very edge of development in Milton Keynes. The bridge  wasn’t yet built and nor was there any landscaping. There was only a hollow of sticky clay soil with a trickle of a stream. One night in 1986 my Dad took my sister and me along with one of my friends here to see Halley’s Comet through a pair of binoculars. As we stomped and twisted our heels our wellies wrote a story of frustration and disappointment in the clay soil.
In the British Museum’s collection of cuneiform tablets there is the earliest confirmed account of Halley’s Comet visiting the night skies above Armenia. Ancient text on clay housed in a museum: This is the very essence of history in the academic sense.
When I’m at home in Lugo I’m inside its Roman walls and within earshot of the bell that crowns an eight hundred year old cathedral. The question “What is History?” is answerable with a sweep of the arm or a pointing of the finger.
These structures are artefacts that link us in the present with the past. Its this kind of objective history that Milton Keynes lacks.
Sure, Milton Keynes has archeological sites and ancient monuments,but they no more part of Milton Keynes’s history than islands are a part of the lake that surrounds them.
However, when I’m in Milton Keynes; the town where I grew up. I might not be surrounded by the history as I am in Lugo, but I am drowning in subjective history
Milton Keynes as an entity is just shy of fifty years old. In a country like Britain where the age of cities, roads and buildings are measured in the thousands of years; fifty years might seem sole nothing, but fifty years is enough time for two generations to live fast and die young and in my case it’s enough time to have powerful memories and emotional connections to a location that’s that no longer exists
I can think of no other definition of history that’s so both profoundly subjective and universal.
It Has No History
These photos are of a place near my parent’s house. In 1986 this area was at the very edge of development in Milton Keynes. The bridge  wasn’t yet built and nor was there any landscaping. There was only a hollow of sticky clay soil with a trickle of a stream. One night in 1986 my Dad took my sister and me along with one of my friends here to see Halley’s Comet through a pair of binoculars. As we stomped and twisted our heels our wellies wrote a story of frustration and disappointment in the clay soil.
In the British Museum’s collection of cuneiform tablets there is the earliest confirmed account of Halley’s Comet visiting the night skies above Armenia. Ancient text on clay housed in a museum: This is the very essence of history in the academic sense.
When I’m at home in Lugo I’m inside its Roman walls and within earshot of the bell that crowns an eight hundred year old cathedral. The question “What is History?” is answerable with a sweep of the arm or a pointing of the finger.
These structures are artefacts that link us in the present with the past. Its this kind of objective history that Milton Keynes lacks.
Sure, Milton Keynes has archeological sites and ancient monuments,but they no more part of Milton Keynes’s history than islands are a part of the lake that surrounds them.
However, when I’m in Milton Keynes; the town where I grew up. I might not be surrounded by the history as I am in Lugo, but I am drowning in subjective history
Milton Keynes as an entity is just shy of fifty years old. In a country like Britain where the age of cities, roads and buildings are measured in the thousands of years; fifty years might seem sole nothing, but fifty years is enough time for two generations to live fast and die young and in my case it’s enough time to have powerful memories and emotional connections to a location that’s that no longer exists
I can think of no other definition of history that’s so both profoundly subjective and universal.
It Has No History
These photos are of a place near my parent’s house. In 1986 this area was at the very edge of development in Milton Keynes. The bridge  wasn’t yet built and nor was there any landscaping. There was only a hollow of sticky clay soil with a trickle of a stream. One night in 1986 my Dad took my sister and me along with one of my friends here to see Halley’s Comet through a pair of binoculars. As we stomped and twisted our heels our wellies wrote a story of frustration and disappointment in the clay soil.
In the British Museum’s collection of cuneiform tablets there is the earliest confirmed account of Halley’s Comet visiting the night skies above Armenia. Ancient text on clay housed in a museum: This is the very essence of history in the academic sense.
When I’m at home in Lugo I’m inside its Roman walls and within earshot of the bell that crowns an eight hundred year old cathedral. The question “What is History?” is answerable with a sweep of the arm or a pointing of the finger.
These structures are artefacts that link us in the present with the past. Its this kind of objective history that Milton Keynes lacks.
Sure, Milton Keynes has archeological sites and ancient monuments,but they no more part of Milton Keynes’s history than islands are a part of the lake that surrounds them.
However, when I’m in Milton Keynes; the town where I grew up. I might not be surrounded by the history as I am in Lugo, but I am drowning in subjective history
Milton Keynes as an entity is just shy of fifty years old. In a country like Britain where the age of cities, roads and buildings are measured in the thousands of years; fifty years might seem sole nothing, but fifty years is enough time for two generations to live fast and die young and in my case it’s enough time to have powerful memories and emotional connections to a location that’s that no longer exists
I can think of no other definition of history that’s so both profoundly subjective and universal.
It Has No History
These photos are of a place near my parent’s house. In 1986 this area was at the very edge of development in Milton Keynes. The bridge  wasn’t yet built and nor was there any landscaping. There was only a hollow of sticky clay soil with a trickle of a stream. One night in 1986 my Dad took my sister and me along with one of my friends here to see Halley’s Comet through a pair of binoculars. As we stomped and twisted our heels our wellies wrote a story of frustration and disappointment in the clay soil.
In the British Museum’s collection of cuneiform tablets there is the earliest confirmed account of Halley’s Comet visiting the night skies above Armenia. Ancient text on clay housed in a museum: This is the very essence of history in the academic sense.
When I’m at home in Lugo I’m inside its Roman walls and within earshot of the bell that crowns an eight hundred year old cathedral. The question “What is History?” is answerable with a sweep of the arm or a pointing of the finger.
These structures are artefacts that link us in the present with the past. Its this kind of objective history that Milton Keynes lacks.
Sure, Milton Keynes has archeological sites and ancient monuments,but they no more part of Milton Keynes’s history than islands are a part of the lake that surrounds them.
However, when I’m in Milton Keynes; the town where I grew up. I might not be surrounded by the history as I am in Lugo, but I am drowning in subjective history
Milton Keynes as an entity is just shy of fifty years old. In a country like Britain where the age of cities, roads and buildings are measured in the thousands of years; fifty years might seem sole nothing, but fifty years is enough time for two generations to live fast and die young and in my case it’s enough time to have powerful memories and emotional connections to a location that’s that no longer exists
I can think of no other definition of history that’s so both profoundly subjective and universal.
It Has No History
These photos are of a place near my parent’s house. In 1986 this area was at the very edge of development in Milton Keynes. The bridge  wasn’t yet built and nor was there any landscaping. There was only a hollow of sticky clay soil with a trickle of a stream. One night in 1986 my Dad took my sister and me along with one of my friends here to see Halley’s Comet through a pair of binoculars. As we stomped and twisted our heels our wellies wrote a story of frustration and disappointment in the clay soil.
In the British Museum’s collection of cuneiform tablets there is the earliest confirmed account of Halley’s Comet visiting the night skies above Armenia. Ancient text on clay housed in a museum: This is the very essence of history in the academic sense.
When I’m at home in Lugo I’m inside its Roman walls and within earshot of the bell that crowns an eight hundred year old cathedral. The question “What is History?” is answerable with a sweep of the arm or a pointing of the finger.
These structures are artefacts that link us in the present with the past. Its this kind of objective history that Milton Keynes lacks.
Sure, Milton Keynes has archeological sites and ancient monuments,but they no more part of Milton Keynes’s history than islands are a part of the lake that surrounds them.
However, when I’m in Milton Keynes; the town where I grew up. I might not be surrounded by the history as I am in Lugo, but I am drowning in subjective history
Milton Keynes as an entity is just shy of fifty years old. In a country like Britain where the age of cities, roads and buildings are measured in the thousands of years; fifty years might seem sole nothing, but fifty years is enough time for two generations to live fast and die young and in my case it’s enough time to have powerful memories and emotional connections to a location that’s that no longer exists
I can think of no other definition of history that’s so both profoundly subjective and universal.
It Has No History
These photos are of a place near my parent’s house. In 1986 this area was at the very edge of development in Milton Keynes. The bridge  wasn’t yet built and nor was there any landscaping. There was only a hollow of sticky clay soil with a trickle of a stream. One night in 1986 my Dad took my sister and me along with one of my friends here to see Halley’s Comet through a pair of binoculars. As we stomped and twisted our heels our wellies wrote a story of frustration and disappointment in the clay soil.
In the British Museum’s collection of cuneiform tablets there is the earliest confirmed account of Halley’s Comet visiting the night skies above Armenia. Ancient text on clay housed in a museum: This is the very essence of history in the academic sense.
When I’m at home in Lugo I’m inside its Roman walls and within earshot of the bell that crowns an eight hundred year old cathedral. The question “What is History?” is answerable with a sweep of the arm or a pointing of the finger.
These structures are artefacts that link us in the present with the past. Its this kind of objective history that Milton Keynes lacks.
Sure, Milton Keynes has archeological sites and ancient monuments,but they no more part of Milton Keynes’s history than islands are a part of the lake that surrounds them.
However, when I’m in Milton Keynes; the town where I grew up. I might not be surrounded by the history as I am in Lugo, but I am drowning in subjective history
Milton Keynes as an entity is just shy of fifty years old. In a country like Britain where the age of cities, roads and buildings are measured in the thousands of years; fifty years might seem sole nothing, but fifty years is enough time for two generations to live fast and die young and in my case it’s enough time to have powerful memories and emotional connections to a location that’s that no longer exists
I can think of no other definition of history that’s so both profoundly subjective and universal.
It Has No History
These photos are of a place near my parent’s house. In 1986 this area was at the very edge of development in Milton Keynes. The bridge  wasn’t yet built and nor was there any landscaping. There was only a hollow of sticky clay soil with a trickle of a stream. One night in 1986 my Dad took my sister and me along with one of my friends here to see Halley’s Comet through a pair of binoculars. As we stomped and twisted our heels our wellies wrote a story of frustration and disappointment in the clay soil.
In the British Museum’s collection of cuneiform tablets there is the earliest confirmed account of Halley’s Comet visiting the night skies above Armenia. Ancient text on clay housed in a museum: This is the very essence of history in the academic sense.
When I’m at home in Lugo I’m inside its Roman walls and within earshot of the bell that crowns an eight hundred year old cathedral. The question “What is History?” is answerable with a sweep of the arm or a pointing of the finger.
These structures are artefacts that link us in the present with the past. Its this kind of objective history that Milton Keynes lacks.
Sure, Milton Keynes has archeological sites and ancient monuments,but they no more part of Milton Keynes’s history than islands are a part of the lake that surrounds them.
However, when I’m in Milton Keynes; the town where I grew up. I might not be surrounded by the history as I am in Lugo, but I am drowning in subjective history
Milton Keynes as an entity is just shy of fifty years old. In a country like Britain where the age of cities, roads and buildings are measured in the thousands of years; fifty years might seem sole nothing, but fifty years is enough time for two generations to live fast and die young and in my case it’s enough time to have powerful memories and emotional connections to a location that’s that no longer exists
I can think of no other definition of history that’s so both profoundly subjective and universal.
It Has No History
These photos are of a place near my parent’s house. In 1986 this area was at the very edge of development in Milton Keynes. The bridge  wasn’t yet built and nor was there any landscaping. There was only a hollow of sticky clay soil with a trickle of a stream. One night in 1986 my Dad took my sister and me along with one of my friends here to see Halley’s Comet through a pair of binoculars. As we stomped and twisted our heels our wellies wrote a story of frustration and disappointment in the clay soil.
In the British Museum’s collection of cuneiform tablets there is the earliest confirmed account of Halley’s Comet visiting the night skies above Armenia. Ancient text on clay housed in a museum: This is the very essence of history in the academic sense.
When I’m at home in Lugo I’m inside its Roman walls and within earshot of the bell that crowns an eight hundred year old cathedral. The question “What is History?” is answerable with a sweep of the arm or a pointing of the finger.
These structures are artefacts that link us in the present with the past. Its this kind of objective history that Milton Keynes lacks.
Sure, Milton Keynes has archeological sites and ancient monuments,but they no more part of Milton Keynes’s history than islands are a part of the lake that surrounds them.
However, when I’m in Milton Keynes; the town where I grew up. I might not be surrounded by the history as I am in Lugo, but I am drowning in subjective history
Milton Keynes as an entity is just shy of fifty years old. In a country like Britain where the age of cities, roads and buildings are measured in the thousands of years; fifty years might seem sole nothing, but fifty years is enough time for two generations to live fast and die young and in my case it’s enough time to have powerful memories and emotional connections to a location that’s that no longer exists
I can think of no other definition of history that’s so both profoundly subjective and universal.

It Has No History

These photos are of a place near my parent’s house. In 1986 this area was at the very edge of development in Milton Keynes. The bridge  wasn’t yet built and nor was there any landscaping. There was only a hollow of sticky clay soil with a trickle of a stream. One night in 1986 my Dad took my sister and me along with one of my friends here to see Halley’s Comet through a pair of binoculars. As we stomped and twisted our heels our wellies wrote a story of frustration and disappointment in the clay soil.

In the British Museum’s collection of cuneiform tablets there is the earliest confirmed account of Halley’s Comet visiting the night skies above Armenia. Ancient text on clay housed in a museum: This is the very essence of history in the academic sense.

When I’m at home in Lugo I’m inside its Roman walls and within earshot of the bell that crowns an eight hundred year old cathedral. The question “What is History?” is answerable with a sweep of the arm or a pointing of the finger.

These structures are artefacts that link us in the present with the past. Its this kind of objective history that Milton Keynes lacks.

Sure, Milton Keynes has archeological sites and ancient monuments,but they no more part of Milton Keynes’s history than islands are a part of the lake that surrounds them.

However, when I’m in Milton Keynes; the town where I grew up. I might not be surrounded by the history as I am in Lugo, but I am drowning in subjective history

Milton Keynes as an entity is just shy of fifty years old. In a country like Britain where the age of cities, roads and buildings are measured in the thousands of years; fifty years might seem sole nothing, but fifty years is enough time for two generations to live fast and die young and in my case it’s enough time to have powerful memories and emotional connections to a location that’s that no longer exists

I can think of no other definition of history that’s so both profoundly subjective and universal.

 ·  22 notes  ·  comments

towermill replied to your photoset

 “King’s Lynn Minster. Where the only worshipers I saw worshipped with…”

towermill: Brings Phillip Larkin to mind

How’s that?

I’ve been listening to a really interesting reading of a biography of Phillip Larkin on the radio this week. That’s despite not being familiar of his work.

It has mentioned that he he liked to travel to villages and take photos of churches or are you talking about something else?

 ·  2 notes  ·  comments

wonderlalia replied to your photoset

“King’s Lynn Minster. Where the only worshipers I saw worshipped with…”

Curiosidad: ¿de qué son las sombras de las fotos 3 y 4? Parece un modelo de un sistema solar, pero seguro que es otra cosa. ;)

¿No eres gato verdad? ¡No quereía matarte con la respuesta! ¿Haces refererencía a esta foto no?

image

No tengo una buena foto de la escultura que está haciendo sombra:

image

En una iglesia católica esa escultura parecería una escultura muy minimalista non? Para mi parece muy muy moderno. Un poco Ikeaosa

wonderlalia

 ·  15 notes  ·  comments

28th August 2014

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28th August 2014

The British Museum & Britain as a museum
Shamefully I had never visited the British Museum before Tuesday.
These photos are of the the Great Court; a covered plaza that welcomes you with a hug of warm air only and immediately insisting you take a shower in diffused daylight before ushering you into the wings so that you go about the business of museuming.
Before last Tuesday my only saving grace had been that when asked about the British museum I could say that over 7 years ago I had had a cappuccino in the coffee shop that sits in the Great Court. Sadly, culture cannot be transmitted by proximity or percolation so I decided to correct this deficiency in my personality.
I spent some hours looking at the artefacts of civilisations past; I stared at the clues we have to the everyday lives of times gone by. The clues are so few, so scattered and so distant from me in time that I felt no connection. The bigger pieces could have been from ancient alien species for all I felt that day.
This disconnection was never resolved as I was caught out by the British day. I had a carrot cake about half past four in the afternoon and was horrified to find myself being guided out of the museum as it got ready to close. All my years in Spain has inoculated me against to the fevered 5pm rush of British life and I had gone about and planned my day unconsciously imagining that the day would begin to slow around 8pm as it does in Spain.
Confusingly 8pm was the time of the first off peak train out of London and I had reserved a ticket thinking my day would have been over by the time it was time to leave.
Full of cake, empty of plans and a little sad that I’d not been able to completely wear myself out at the museum I slowly made my way to Euston; hoping that I’d find a way to kill a couple of hours on arrival.
I never did: Outside the rain poured off the streets and cascaded down stairs leading into the underground, but inside Euston it was dry and trying to stand outside the of the choas I stood and watched the tail-end of the rush hour. Hundreds of people stood and stared at the departures board, hoping that their vigilance would reward them the forewarning to trot down to the train and find  a seat before the less prepared arrived.
I forced myself to eat some junk food once the novelty of paying 30p to access the toilet had worn out; Once again I felt outside of the society and I studied primary sources about the society I examined: I read magazine articles about Scottish Independence while keeping an eye on the departures board until the platform for my train was announced.
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | The British Museum, London The United Kingdom
a photoset
The British Museum & Britain as a museum
Shamefully I had never visited the British Museum before Tuesday.
These photos are of the the Great Court; a covered plaza that welcomes you with a hug of warm air only and immediately insisting you take a shower in diffused daylight before ushering you into the wings so that you go about the business of museuming.
Before last Tuesday my only saving grace had been that when asked about the British museum I could say that over 7 years ago I had had a cappuccino in the coffee shop that sits in the Great Court. Sadly, culture cannot be transmitted by proximity or percolation so I decided to correct this deficiency in my personality.
I spent some hours looking at the artefacts of civilisations past; I stared at the clues we have to the everyday lives of times gone by. The clues are so few, so scattered and so distant from me in time that I felt no connection. The bigger pieces could have been from ancient alien species for all I felt that day.
This disconnection was never resolved as I was caught out by the British day. I had a carrot cake about half past four in the afternoon and was horrified to find myself being guided out of the museum as it got ready to close. All my years in Spain has inoculated me against to the fevered 5pm rush of British life and I had gone about and planned my day unconsciously imagining that the day would begin to slow around 8pm as it does in Spain.
Confusingly 8pm was the time of the first off peak train out of London and I had reserved a ticket thinking my day would have been over by the time it was time to leave.
Full of cake, empty of plans and a little sad that I’d not been able to completely wear myself out at the museum I slowly made my way to Euston; hoping that I’d find a way to kill a couple of hours on arrival.
I never did: Outside the rain poured off the streets and cascaded down stairs leading into the underground, but inside Euston it was dry and trying to stand outside the of the choas I stood and watched the tail-end of the rush hour. Hundreds of people stood and stared at the departures board, hoping that their vigilance would reward them the forewarning to trot down to the train and find  a seat before the less prepared arrived.
I forced myself to eat some junk food once the novelty of paying 30p to access the toilet had worn out; Once again I felt outside of the society and I studied primary sources about the society I examined: I read magazine articles about Scottish Independence while keeping an eye on the departures board until the platform for my train was announced.
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | The British Museum, London The United Kingdom
a photoset
The British Museum & Britain as a museum
Shamefully I had never visited the British Museum before Tuesday.
These photos are of the the Great Court; a covered plaza that welcomes you with a hug of warm air only and immediately insisting you take a shower in diffused daylight before ushering you into the wings so that you go about the business of museuming.
Before last Tuesday my only saving grace had been that when asked about the British museum I could say that over 7 years ago I had had a cappuccino in the coffee shop that sits in the Great Court. Sadly, culture cannot be transmitted by proximity or percolation so I decided to correct this deficiency in my personality.
I spent some hours looking at the artefacts of civilisations past; I stared at the clues we have to the everyday lives of times gone by. The clues are so few, so scattered and so distant from me in time that I felt no connection. The bigger pieces could have been from ancient alien species for all I felt that day.
This disconnection was never resolved as I was caught out by the British day. I had a carrot cake about half past four in the afternoon and was horrified to find myself being guided out of the museum as it got ready to close. All my years in Spain has inoculated me against to the fevered 5pm rush of British life and I had gone about and planned my day unconsciously imagining that the day would begin to slow around 8pm as it does in Spain.
Confusingly 8pm was the time of the first off peak train out of London and I had reserved a ticket thinking my day would have been over by the time it was time to leave.
Full of cake, empty of plans and a little sad that I’d not been able to completely wear myself out at the museum I slowly made my way to Euston; hoping that I’d find a way to kill a couple of hours on arrival.
I never did: Outside the rain poured off the streets and cascaded down stairs leading into the underground, but inside Euston it was dry and trying to stand outside the of the choas I stood and watched the tail-end of the rush hour. Hundreds of people stood and stared at the departures board, hoping that their vigilance would reward them the forewarning to trot down to the train and find  a seat before the less prepared arrived.
I forced myself to eat some junk food once the novelty of paying 30p to access the toilet had worn out; Once again I felt outside of the society and I studied primary sources about the society I examined: I read magazine articles about Scottish Independence while keeping an eye on the departures board until the platform for my train was announced.
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | The British Museum, London The United Kingdom
a photoset
The British Museum & Britain as a museum
Shamefully I had never visited the British Museum before Tuesday.
These photos are of the the Great Court; a covered plaza that welcomes you with a hug of warm air only and immediately insisting you take a shower in diffused daylight before ushering you into the wings so that you go about the business of museuming.
Before last Tuesday my only saving grace had been that when asked about the British museum I could say that over 7 years ago I had had a cappuccino in the coffee shop that sits in the Great Court. Sadly, culture cannot be transmitted by proximity or percolation so I decided to correct this deficiency in my personality.
I spent some hours looking at the artefacts of civilisations past; I stared at the clues we have to the everyday lives of times gone by. The clues are so few, so scattered and so distant from me in time that I felt no connection. The bigger pieces could have been from ancient alien species for all I felt that day.
This disconnection was never resolved as I was caught out by the British day. I had a carrot cake about half past four in the afternoon and was horrified to find myself being guided out of the museum as it got ready to close. All my years in Spain has inoculated me against to the fevered 5pm rush of British life and I had gone about and planned my day unconsciously imagining that the day would begin to slow around 8pm as it does in Spain.
Confusingly 8pm was the time of the first off peak train out of London and I had reserved a ticket thinking my day would have been over by the time it was time to leave.
Full of cake, empty of plans and a little sad that I’d not been able to completely wear myself out at the museum I slowly made my way to Euston; hoping that I’d find a way to kill a couple of hours on arrival.
I never did: Outside the rain poured off the streets and cascaded down stairs leading into the underground, but inside Euston it was dry and trying to stand outside the of the choas I stood and watched the tail-end of the rush hour. Hundreds of people stood and stared at the departures board, hoping that their vigilance would reward them the forewarning to trot down to the train and find  a seat before the less prepared arrived.
I forced myself to eat some junk food once the novelty of paying 30p to access the toilet had worn out; Once again I felt outside of the society and I studied primary sources about the society I examined: I read magazine articles about Scottish Independence while keeping an eye on the departures board until the platform for my train was announced.
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | The British Museum, London The United Kingdom
a photoset
The British Museum & Britain as a museum
Shamefully I had never visited the British Museum before Tuesday.
These photos are of the the Great Court; a covered plaza that welcomes you with a hug of warm air only and immediately insisting you take a shower in diffused daylight before ushering you into the wings so that you go about the business of museuming.
Before last Tuesday my only saving grace had been that when asked about the British museum I could say that over 7 years ago I had had a cappuccino in the coffee shop that sits in the Great Court. Sadly, culture cannot be transmitted by proximity or percolation so I decided to correct this deficiency in my personality.
I spent some hours looking at the artefacts of civilisations past; I stared at the clues we have to the everyday lives of times gone by. The clues are so few, so scattered and so distant from me in time that I felt no connection. The bigger pieces could have been from ancient alien species for all I felt that day.
This disconnection was never resolved as I was caught out by the British day. I had a carrot cake about half past four in the afternoon and was horrified to find myself being guided out of the museum as it got ready to close. All my years in Spain has inoculated me against to the fevered 5pm rush of British life and I had gone about and planned my day unconsciously imagining that the day would begin to slow around 8pm as it does in Spain.
Confusingly 8pm was the time of the first off peak train out of London and I had reserved a ticket thinking my day would have been over by the time it was time to leave.
Full of cake, empty of plans and a little sad that I’d not been able to completely wear myself out at the museum I slowly made my way to Euston; hoping that I’d find a way to kill a couple of hours on arrival.
I never did: Outside the rain poured off the streets and cascaded down stairs leading into the underground, but inside Euston it was dry and trying to stand outside the of the choas I stood and watched the tail-end of the rush hour. Hundreds of people stood and stared at the departures board, hoping that their vigilance would reward them the forewarning to trot down to the train and find  a seat before the less prepared arrived.
I forced myself to eat some junk food once the novelty of paying 30p to access the toilet had worn out; Once again I felt outside of the society and I studied primary sources about the society I examined: I read magazine articles about Scottish Independence while keeping an eye on the departures board until the platform for my train was announced.
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | The British Museum, London The United Kingdom
a photoset
The British Museum & Britain as a museum
Shamefully I had never visited the British Museum before Tuesday.
These photos are of the the Great Court; a covered plaza that welcomes you with a hug of warm air only and immediately insisting you take a shower in diffused daylight before ushering you into the wings so that you go about the business of museuming.
Before last Tuesday my only saving grace had been that when asked about the British museum I could say that over 7 years ago I had had a cappuccino in the coffee shop that sits in the Great Court. Sadly, culture cannot be transmitted by proximity or percolation so I decided to correct this deficiency in my personality.
I spent some hours looking at the artefacts of civilisations past; I stared at the clues we have to the everyday lives of times gone by. The clues are so few, so scattered and so distant from me in time that I felt no connection. The bigger pieces could have been from ancient alien species for all I felt that day.
This disconnection was never resolved as I was caught out by the British day. I had a carrot cake about half past four in the afternoon and was horrified to find myself being guided out of the museum as it got ready to close. All my years in Spain has inoculated me against to the fevered 5pm rush of British life and I had gone about and planned my day unconsciously imagining that the day would begin to slow around 8pm as it does in Spain.
Confusingly 8pm was the time of the first off peak train out of London and I had reserved a ticket thinking my day would have been over by the time it was time to leave.
Full of cake, empty of plans and a little sad that I’d not been able to completely wear myself out at the museum I slowly made my way to Euston; hoping that I’d find a way to kill a couple of hours on arrival.
I never did: Outside the rain poured off the streets and cascaded down stairs leading into the underground, but inside Euston it was dry and trying to stand outside the of the choas I stood and watched the tail-end of the rush hour. Hundreds of people stood and stared at the departures board, hoping that their vigilance would reward them the forewarning to trot down to the train and find  a seat before the less prepared arrived.
I forced myself to eat some junk food once the novelty of paying 30p to access the toilet had worn out; Once again I felt outside of the society and I studied primary sources about the society I examined: I read magazine articles about Scottish Independence while keeping an eye on the departures board until the platform for my train was announced.
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | The British Museum, London The United Kingdom
a photoset

The British Museum & Britain as a museum

Shamefully I had never visited the British Museum before Tuesday.

These photos are of the the Great Court; a covered plaza that welcomes you with a hug of warm air only and immediately insisting you take a shower in diffused daylight before ushering you into the wings so that you go about the business of museuming.

Before last Tuesday my only saving grace had been that when asked about the British museum I could say that over 7 years ago I had had a cappuccino in the coffee shop that sits in the Great Court. Sadly, culture cannot be transmitted by proximity or percolation so I decided to correct this deficiency in my personality.

I spent some hours looking at the artefacts of civilisations past; I stared at the clues we have to the everyday lives of times gone by. The clues are so few, so scattered and so distant from me in time that I felt no connection. The bigger pieces could have been from ancient alien species for all I felt that day.

This disconnection was never resolved as I was caught out by the British day. I had a carrot cake about half past four in the afternoon and was horrified to find myself being guided out of the museum as it got ready to close. All my years in Spain has inoculated me against to the fevered 5pm rush of British life and I had gone about and planned my day unconsciously imagining that the day would begin to slow around 8pm as it does in Spain.

Confusingly 8pm was the time of the first off peak train out of London and I had reserved a ticket thinking my day would have been over by the time it was time to leave.

Full of cake, empty of plans and a little sad that I’d not been able to completely wear myself out at the museum I slowly made my way to Euston; hoping that I’d find a way to kill a couple of hours on arrival.

I never did: Outside the rain poured off the streets and cascaded down stairs leading into the underground, but inside Euston it was dry and trying to stand outside the of the choas I stood and watched the tail-end of the rush hour. Hundreds of people stood and stared at the departures board, hoping that their vigilance would reward them the forewarning to trot down to the train and find  a seat before the less prepared arrived.

I forced myself to eat some junk food once the novelty of paying 30p to access the toilet had worn out; Once again I felt outside of the society and I studied primary sources about the society I examined: I read magazine articles about Scottish Independence while keeping an eye on the departures board until the platform for my train was announced.


Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | The British Museum, London The United Kingdom

a photoset

 ·  32 notes  ·  comments

28th August 2014

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28th August 2014

The Minster of King’s Lynn
Where the only worshipers I saw worshipped with their cameras.
There’s little I have to say about my time here, which is sad as somewhere so old should drench you with stories. There where ledger stones with the names of people buried 400 years ago, but none of my photos of those are good enough to share. 
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | King’s Lynn Minster King’s Lynn, Norfolk
The Minster of King’s Lynn
Where the only worshipers I saw worshipped with their cameras.
There’s little I have to say about my time here, which is sad as somewhere so old should drench you with stories. There where ledger stones with the names of people buried 400 years ago, but none of my photos of those are good enough to share. 
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | King’s Lynn Minster King’s Lynn, Norfolk
The Minster of King’s Lynn
Where the only worshipers I saw worshipped with their cameras.
There’s little I have to say about my time here, which is sad as somewhere so old should drench you with stories. There where ledger stones with the names of people buried 400 years ago, but none of my photos of those are good enough to share. 
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | King’s Lynn Minster King’s Lynn, Norfolk
The Minster of King’s Lynn
Where the only worshipers I saw worshipped with their cameras.
There’s little I have to say about my time here, which is sad as somewhere so old should drench you with stories. There where ledger stones with the names of people buried 400 years ago, but none of my photos of those are good enough to share. 
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | King’s Lynn Minster King’s Lynn, Norfolk
The Minster of King’s Lynn
Where the only worshipers I saw worshipped with their cameras.
There’s little I have to say about my time here, which is sad as somewhere so old should drench you with stories. There where ledger stones with the names of people buried 400 years ago, but none of my photos of those are good enough to share. 
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | King’s Lynn Minster King’s Lynn, Norfolk
The Minster of King’s Lynn
Where the only worshipers I saw worshipped with their cameras.
There’s little I have to say about my time here, which is sad as somewhere so old should drench you with stories. There where ledger stones with the names of people buried 400 years ago, but none of my photos of those are good enough to share. 
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | King’s Lynn Minster King’s Lynn, Norfolk
The Minster of King’s Lynn
Where the only worshipers I saw worshipped with their cameras.
There’s little I have to say about my time here, which is sad as somewhere so old should drench you with stories. There where ledger stones with the names of people buried 400 years ago, but none of my photos of those are good enough to share. 
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | King’s Lynn Minster King’s Lynn, Norfolk

The Minster of King’s Lynn

Where the only worshipers I saw worshipped with their cameras.

There’s little I have to say about my time here, which is sad as somewhere so old should drench you with stories. There where ledger stones with the names of people buried 400 years ago, but none of my photos of those are good enough to share. 


Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | King’s Lynn Minster King’s Lynn, Norfolk

 ·  24 notes  ·  comments
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