It's stories all the way down

A diary of sorts.

I love stories. Please tell me yours

Or just say hullo

Contos de arriba cara abaixo

Unha especie de diario

Encántame os contos. Cóntame o teu ou dime Ola

Por favor corríxeme cando cometo erros na túa lingua. Por favor corrígeme cuando cometo errores en tu idioma.

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

 ·  11 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

 ·  28 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

 ·  22 notes  ·  comments

26th August 2014

(Apologies for low quality it was a mobile shot)
Paddington Station. One of those romantic Victorian stations with lofty ceilings. I tried to find a bear to befriend and take home but they were all out. I passed through Paddington as I made my way from Heathrow to a pub in North London to begin a stag party for one of my oldest friends (Apologies for low quality it was a mobile shot)
Paddington Station. One of those romantic Victorian stations with lofty ceilings. I tried to find a bear to befriend and take home but they were all out. I passed through Paddington as I made my way from Heathrow to a pub in North London to begin a stag party for one of my oldest friends

(Apologies for low quality it was a mobile shot)

Paddington Station. One of those romantic Victorian stations with lofty ceilings. I tried to find a bear to befriend and take home but they were all out. I passed through Paddington as I made my way from Heathrow to a pub in North London to begin a stag party for one of my oldest friends

 ·  49 notes  ·  comments

20th August 2014

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20th August 2014

This is an unusual set of photographs from me; photos with people in them. Even more unusually they are people doing things.
Wordy version
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | Waterboarding and waterski-ing at Willen Lake in Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire in the United Kingdom
A photoset
This is an unusual set of photographs from me; photos with people in them. Even more unusually they are people doing things.
Wordy version
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | Waterboarding and waterski-ing at Willen Lake in Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire in the United Kingdom
A photoset
This is an unusual set of photographs from me; photos with people in them. Even more unusually they are people doing things.
Wordy version
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | Waterboarding and waterski-ing at Willen Lake in Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire in the United Kingdom
A photoset
This is an unusual set of photographs from me; photos with people in them. Even more unusually they are people doing things.
Wordy version
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | Waterboarding and waterski-ing at Willen Lake in Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire in the United Kingdom
A photoset
This is an unusual set of photographs from me; photos with people in them. Even more unusually they are people doing things.
Wordy version
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | Waterboarding and waterski-ing at Willen Lake in Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire in the United Kingdom
A photoset

This is an unusual set of photographs from me; photos with people in them. Even more unusually they are people doing things.

Wordy version


Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | Waterboarding and waterski-ing at Willen Lake in Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire in the United Kingdom

A photoset

Reblogged from It's stories all the way down

 ·  26 notes  ·  comments

19th August 2014

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19th August 2014

Not so wordy version
This is an unusual set of photographs from me; photos with people in them. Even more unusually they are people doing things.
I visited the IF Festival at Willen lake this summer and walked around  Willen Lake. or “Willen Lakes” as it now seems to be called. Here is a photoset of some sporty people using the WakeMK cables letting them practice waterski-ing and wake boarding.
In the summer of 1996 I spent a week on the lake doing watersports. I got sunburnt, exhausted and fell in love with someone I’d never speak with.
All the blisters that marked where we had had our BCG injections got infected as we fell and fell and fell into the lake, our feet touching the soft clay bottom
Some of the school friends I spent the that lively week  with filled with laughter and heart ache are still my friends. Some went to my wedding, some I don’t remember anymore. Their faces ravaged by lossy memory.
Even in the years before that Willen Lake was where my family would go for days out. It was also where my longest bike rides would take me. I couldn’t conceive of a destination further than there. Neither could I imagine a lake any bigger.
How small my world, how innocent I denied being.
Two years later I would fall in love again,  only to be quickly submerged into an elfshot body that I very nearly drowned in. 5 years later I would stand atop the CN Tower of Toronto looking out with wonder as the lights of New York’s skyscrapers just poked up and over the horizon, twinkling as the line of sight was doused by the waves of Lake Superior.
Toronto is where I would miss the death and funeral of one of the friends who I’d shared Willen lake with.
6 years later I’d be in the Australian outback watching dawn peel away the cover of darkness from Uluru. And there, as here I’d think about the friend who’s gone and my broken heart.
12 years later I’d stand on top of a butte just outside of Mula sharing the flat-toped hill with the ruins of an Arab fortress having cycled for an hour under a blister of blue sky infected with red sand and air thickened into mucous by the Spanish sun.
Once again I think of him and of  her(s)
and as I look out of my window listening to the Galician and Castilian words floating up from the once Roman street below and feel the eternal stare of an 800 year old cathedral I think of him and of  her(s).
How small my world, how innocent I wish I was.
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | Waterboarding and waterski-ing at Willen Lake in Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire in the United Kingdom
A photoset with words
Not so wordy version
This is an unusual set of photographs from me; photos with people in them. Even more unusually they are people doing things.
I visited the IF Festival at Willen lake this summer and walked around  Willen Lake. or “Willen Lakes” as it now seems to be called. Here is a photoset of some sporty people using the WakeMK cables letting them practice waterski-ing and wake boarding.
In the summer of 1996 I spent a week on the lake doing watersports. I got sunburnt, exhausted and fell in love with someone I’d never speak with.
All the blisters that marked where we had had our BCG injections got infected as we fell and fell and fell into the lake, our feet touching the soft clay bottom
Some of the school friends I spent the that lively week  with filled with laughter and heart ache are still my friends. Some went to my wedding, some I don’t remember anymore. Their faces ravaged by lossy memory.
Even in the years before that Willen Lake was where my family would go for days out. It was also where my longest bike rides would take me. I couldn’t conceive of a destination further than there. Neither could I imagine a lake any bigger.
How small my world, how innocent I denied being.
Two years later I would fall in love again,  only to be quickly submerged into an elfshot body that I very nearly drowned in. 5 years later I would stand atop the CN Tower of Toronto looking out with wonder as the lights of New York’s skyscrapers just poked up and over the horizon, twinkling as the line of sight was doused by the waves of Lake Superior.
Toronto is where I would miss the death and funeral of one of the friends who I’d shared Willen lake with.
6 years later I’d be in the Australian outback watching dawn peel away the cover of darkness from Uluru. And there, as here I’d think about the friend who’s gone and my broken heart.
12 years later I’d stand on top of a butte just outside of Mula sharing the flat-toped hill with the ruins of an Arab fortress having cycled for an hour under a blister of blue sky infected with red sand and air thickened into mucous by the Spanish sun.
Once again I think of him and of  her(s)
and as I look out of my window listening to the Galician and Castilian words floating up from the once Roman street below and feel the eternal stare of an 800 year old cathedral I think of him and of  her(s).
How small my world, how innocent I wish I was.
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | Waterboarding and waterski-ing at Willen Lake in Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire in the United Kingdom
A photoset with words
Not so wordy version
This is an unusual set of photographs from me; photos with people in them. Even more unusually they are people doing things.
I visited the IF Festival at Willen lake this summer and walked around  Willen Lake. or “Willen Lakes” as it now seems to be called. Here is a photoset of some sporty people using the WakeMK cables letting them practice waterski-ing and wake boarding.
In the summer of 1996 I spent a week on the lake doing watersports. I got sunburnt, exhausted and fell in love with someone I’d never speak with.
All the blisters that marked where we had had our BCG injections got infected as we fell and fell and fell into the lake, our feet touching the soft clay bottom
Some of the school friends I spent the that lively week  with filled with laughter and heart ache are still my friends. Some went to my wedding, some I don’t remember anymore. Their faces ravaged by lossy memory.
Even in the years before that Willen Lake was where my family would go for days out. It was also where my longest bike rides would take me. I couldn’t conceive of a destination further than there. Neither could I imagine a lake any bigger.
How small my world, how innocent I denied being.
Two years later I would fall in love again,  only to be quickly submerged into an elfshot body that I very nearly drowned in. 5 years later I would stand atop the CN Tower of Toronto looking out with wonder as the lights of New York’s skyscrapers just poked up and over the horizon, twinkling as the line of sight was doused by the waves of Lake Superior.
Toronto is where I would miss the death and funeral of one of the friends who I’d shared Willen lake with.
6 years later I’d be in the Australian outback watching dawn peel away the cover of darkness from Uluru. And there, as here I’d think about the friend who’s gone and my broken heart.
12 years later I’d stand on top of a butte just outside of Mula sharing the flat-toped hill with the ruins of an Arab fortress having cycled for an hour under a blister of blue sky infected with red sand and air thickened into mucous by the Spanish sun.
Once again I think of him and of  her(s)
and as I look out of my window listening to the Galician and Castilian words floating up from the once Roman street below and feel the eternal stare of an 800 year old cathedral I think of him and of  her(s).
How small my world, how innocent I wish I was.
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | Waterboarding and waterski-ing at Willen Lake in Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire in the United Kingdom
A photoset with words
Not so wordy version
This is an unusual set of photographs from me; photos with people in them. Even more unusually they are people doing things.
I visited the IF Festival at Willen lake this summer and walked around  Willen Lake. or “Willen Lakes” as it now seems to be called. Here is a photoset of some sporty people using the WakeMK cables letting them practice waterski-ing and wake boarding.
In the summer of 1996 I spent a week on the lake doing watersports. I got sunburnt, exhausted and fell in love with someone I’d never speak with.
All the blisters that marked where we had had our BCG injections got infected as we fell and fell and fell into the lake, our feet touching the soft clay bottom
Some of the school friends I spent the that lively week  with filled with laughter and heart ache are still my friends. Some went to my wedding, some I don’t remember anymore. Their faces ravaged by lossy memory.
Even in the years before that Willen Lake was where my family would go for days out. It was also where my longest bike rides would take me. I couldn’t conceive of a destination further than there. Neither could I imagine a lake any bigger.
How small my world, how innocent I denied being.
Two years later I would fall in love again,  only to be quickly submerged into an elfshot body that I very nearly drowned in. 5 years later I would stand atop the CN Tower of Toronto looking out with wonder as the lights of New York’s skyscrapers just poked up and over the horizon, twinkling as the line of sight was doused by the waves of Lake Superior.
Toronto is where I would miss the death and funeral of one of the friends who I’d shared Willen lake with.
6 years later I’d be in the Australian outback watching dawn peel away the cover of darkness from Uluru. And there, as here I’d think about the friend who’s gone and my broken heart.
12 years later I’d stand on top of a butte just outside of Mula sharing the flat-toped hill with the ruins of an Arab fortress having cycled for an hour under a blister of blue sky infected with red sand and air thickened into mucous by the Spanish sun.
Once again I think of him and of  her(s)
and as I look out of my window listening to the Galician and Castilian words floating up from the once Roman street below and feel the eternal stare of an 800 year old cathedral I think of him and of  her(s).
How small my world, how innocent I wish I was.
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | Waterboarding and waterski-ing at Willen Lake in Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire in the United Kingdom
A photoset with words
Not so wordy version
This is an unusual set of photographs from me; photos with people in them. Even more unusually they are people doing things.
I visited the IF Festival at Willen lake this summer and walked around  Willen Lake. or “Willen Lakes” as it now seems to be called. Here is a photoset of some sporty people using the WakeMK cables letting them practice waterski-ing and wake boarding.
In the summer of 1996 I spent a week on the lake doing watersports. I got sunburnt, exhausted and fell in love with someone I’d never speak with.
All the blisters that marked where we had had our BCG injections got infected as we fell and fell and fell into the lake, our feet touching the soft clay bottom
Some of the school friends I spent the that lively week  with filled with laughter and heart ache are still my friends. Some went to my wedding, some I don’t remember anymore. Their faces ravaged by lossy memory.
Even in the years before that Willen Lake was where my family would go for days out. It was also where my longest bike rides would take me. I couldn’t conceive of a destination further than there. Neither could I imagine a lake any bigger.
How small my world, how innocent I denied being.
Two years later I would fall in love again,  only to be quickly submerged into an elfshot body that I very nearly drowned in. 5 years later I would stand atop the CN Tower of Toronto looking out with wonder as the lights of New York’s skyscrapers just poked up and over the horizon, twinkling as the line of sight was doused by the waves of Lake Superior.
Toronto is where I would miss the death and funeral of one of the friends who I’d shared Willen lake with.
6 years later I’d be in the Australian outback watching dawn peel away the cover of darkness from Uluru. And there, as here I’d think about the friend who’s gone and my broken heart.
12 years later I’d stand on top of a butte just outside of Mula sharing the flat-toped hill with the ruins of an Arab fortress having cycled for an hour under a blister of blue sky infected with red sand and air thickened into mucous by the Spanish sun.
Once again I think of him and of  her(s)
and as I look out of my window listening to the Galician and Castilian words floating up from the once Roman street below and feel the eternal stare of an 800 year old cathedral I think of him and of  her(s).
How small my world, how innocent I wish I was.
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | Waterboarding and waterski-ing at Willen Lake in Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire in the United Kingdom
A photoset with words

Not so wordy version

This is an unusual set of photographs from me; photos with people in them. Even more unusually they are people doing things.

I visited the IF Festival at Willen lake this summer and walked around  Willen Lake. or “Willen Lakes” as it now seems to be called. Here is a photoset of some sporty people using the WakeMK cables letting them practice waterski-ing and wake boarding.

In the summer of 1996 I spent a week on the lake doing watersports. I got sunburnt, exhausted and fell in love with someone I’d never speak with.

All the blisters that marked where we had had our BCG injections got infected as we fell and fell and fell into the lake, our feet touching the soft clay bottom

Some of the school friends I spent the that lively week  with filled with laughter and heart ache are still my friends. Some went to my wedding, some I don’t remember anymore. Their faces ravaged by lossy memory.

Even in the years before that Willen Lake was where my family would go for days out. It was also where my longest bike rides would take me. I couldn’t conceive of a destination further than there. Neither could I imagine a lake any bigger.

How small my world, how innocent I denied being.

Two years later I would fall in love again,  only to be quickly submerged into an elfshot body that I very nearly drowned in. 5 years later I would stand atop the CN Tower of Toronto looking out with wonder as the lights of New York’s skyscrapers just poked up and over the horizon, twinkling as the line of sight was doused by the waves of Lake Superior.

Toronto is where I would miss the death and funeral of one of the friends who I’d shared Willen lake with.

6 years later I’d be in the Australian outback watching dawn peel away the cover of darkness from Uluru. And there, as here I’d think about the friend who’s gone and my broken heart.

12 years later I’d stand on top of a butte just outside of Mula sharing the flat-toped hill with the ruins of an Arab fortress having cycled for an hour under a blister of blue sky infected with red sand and air thickened into mucous by the Spanish sun.

Once again I think of him and of  her(s)

and as I look out of my window listening to the Galician and Castilian words floating up from the once Roman street below and feel the eternal stare of an 800 year old cathedral I think of him and of  her(s).

How small my world, how innocent I wish I was.


Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | Waterboarding and waterski-ing at Willen Lake in Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire in the United Kingdom

A photoset with words

 ·  26 notes  ·  comments

Otherwheres ]

This tumblr which bears my name is where I share my photos and ocasional  thoughts that are spinning about my head and haunting me.

I do have a couple of other tumblr blogs that are mostly reblogs. They represent interests of mine that I don’t think are right for my followers here. But I thought I’d share their URLs with you.

These blogs go through periods of floods and drought and are much less frequently updated than this blog, so if you like regular updates I wouldn’t recommend following them.

Lightswimming 

Lightswimming is a term I coined a few years ago to drescribe my own love of large blocks of sunlight in my photos. I guess I was inspired / stole the name from the REM song title Nightswimming.

That’s where I share imagary and the occasional sentence that moves me. I follow a lot of intelligent and sexy people and I occasionally I like to share some of their creations or finds over there.


Andurza

Andurza is a word I made up. it comes from  the Hittite word an-durza which is the probably the ultimate ancestor of the English word “door”. It probably means “within”.

I wanted to find the oldest possible word in Indo-european languagues that means “architecture”, “dwelling” or “bulding”.

As you might be able to guess it’s a blog of photographs of interiors, buildings and aspects of architecture.


Daterraemar

I coined the phrase Granxieros de terra e mar Farmers of the land and the sea  to describe the classical image of the Galician people. and from that got the blog’s name daterraemar This comes from Da terra e do mar or pertaining to the land and the sea.

Daterraeomar Is my tumblr blog exploring and describing aspects of Galician culture language in English. It covers nationalist graffiti to Pemento de Padrón. I don’t always agree with the sentiments I reblog there, but I’ve always been fascinated by  independence movements. so I often share and explore parts of Galicia’s independence movement campaign materiales there

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12th August 2014

I could probably make a photoset of all the photos I took of this crucifix gravestone. I may still do it later.
I remember taking many photos with different settings, trying to capture this cross with a cobweb glowing in the sunset. I wasn’t happy with the results I was getting, but as I wasn’t alone I didn’t want to spend too long taking photos of the same thing.
Do you test the patience of friends and loved ones when taking photos too?
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | Baldock,Hertfordshire, The United Kingdom I could probably make a photoset of all the photos I took of this crucifix gravestone. I may still do it later.
I remember taking many photos with different settings, trying to capture this cross with a cobweb glowing in the sunset. I wasn’t happy with the results I was getting, but as I wasn’t alone I didn’t want to spend too long taking photos of the same thing.
Do you test the patience of friends and loved ones when taking photos too?
Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | Baldock,Hertfordshire, The United Kingdom

I could probably make a photoset of all the photos I took of this crucifix gravestone. I may still do it later.

I remember taking many photos with different settings, trying to capture this cross with a cobweb glowing in the sunset. I wasn’t happy with the results I was getting, but as I wasn’t alone I didn’t want to spend too long taking photos of the same thing.

Do you test the patience of friends and loved ones when taking photos too?


Neilwykes@tumblr 2014 | Baldock,Hertfordshire, The United Kingdom

 ·  16 notes  ·  comments

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fotoforays replied to your photo “Yes, I’m the canine owner of an antiques shop, tattoo parlour and…”

ha! enjoy your sense of humour (great comeback reply on the fluffy tail the other day) ツ

Congratulations you are now the member of an elite club of people who can tell I have a sense of humour. Unfortunately There are no benefits to being a member, if anything it’s a hindrance.

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wonderlaliareplied to your photo “Yes, I’m the canine owner of an antiques shop, tattoo parlour and…”

His back sort of looks like it’s covered in tattoos of dalmatian spots. Poser.

Aspirational bulldog is aspirational

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fotoforays replied to your photoset “The longer I’ve spent living abroad the more strongly I’m drawn to…”

really enjoyed reading this - an interesting and nostalgic reflection of your past and how you’ve come to appreciate it ツ

Thank you! I’m really glad you found it interesting and enjoyed it to boot!

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