Walking through the cobbled, dark, dilapidated streets of Florence — literally ‘the flourishing’ — it’s hard to believe that it was once the capital of the Renaissance, an artistic movement whose graceful wings would harbour the finest contemporary artists, the fluttering of which is still felt today. Undeniably beautiful, in its own rustic way, Firenze today is one of the most attractive and charming cities in the world but… what would it have looked like 500 years ago at the peak of its opulence, at the zenith of the Medici family’s power? What would it have looked like before ‘faithful reconstructions’ and centuries of war-torn damage?

It’s a feeling that haunts me whenever I explore ancient sites and cities, a nagging itch that I just can’t shake: how did it look in its hey-day, before tourism and smogged industry? I’ll never know — we’ll never know. In Ephesus, Turkey, that realisation was hammered home: I could be walking around the greatest and most beautiful city that has ever graced this world, but it would forever just be an image in my mind and nothing more. I can run my hands over fallen columns, their reliefs painstakingly chipped and carved to a level of manual craftsmanship that we’ll never see again, imagining what Ephesus might’ve looked like, felt like, but it won’t bring the city back to life. There its remains will lie, feeding imaginations of adventurous tourists until the end of time.

Back in Florence, at least there haven’t been any earthquakes (the most common cause of destruction in ancient Turkey was earthquakes, and the small fact of building accidentally on marsh land). Much of what you see today, picking your way over the ankle-turning cobbles of doom is authentic, aged, well-preserved. But it’s not really the buildings I’m here to see, it’s what’s inside: the finest collections of Gottis and Donatellos in the world, housed under wonders such as Brunelleschi’s dome, the Duomo, a construction of 4 million bricks that is still the largest masonry dome in the world.

But who am I kidding? The Raphaels are beautiful and the Da Vincis spectacular but the Michelangelos…

Passing through security, I turn to my right. There he stands, in plainly flaunted view, at the end of a long, vaulted avenue. Lined with other priceless sculptures that receive scarcely more than a fleeting glance, the avenue serves just one purpose: to heighten and hone my senses, to zoom in on what I’ve come to see: David. Lit perfectly and elevated, his head and gaze are level and contemplative. I wonder if there isn’t some small measure of irony in the monstrous size of Michelangelo’s finest masterpiece. Surely he anticipated, as he chipped away at a eighteen-foot block of flawless marble that his creation would be imposing. Maybe he was allured by the nickname the local authorities had given the raw block of marble: The Giant; perhaps Michelangelo felt that he was simply carving out the rock’s destiny. But who cares: David is huge. David dwarfs you and absorbs the entire room, sucking in your attention like a miniature black hole. Dare to meet his gaze and he defies you, just as he defies the world with the wordless challenge issued by his engraved face and form.

Aged just 26, Michelangelo would spend two years chipping away at a brave new portrayal of the Biblical figure King David. Most artists had presented David after his battle with Goliath, victorious; Michelangelo created a more ambiguous work, a piece so rich in detail that there are many possible interpretations: does that look of contemplation come from his decision to fight the giant, or is he looking up serenely having just vanquished his foe?

Only one person knows for sure and I hope he took the secret to his grave — where would the fun be if there was only one possible reading? The creation of art is only part of the process; admiration and interpretation are both required to make it complete, to make the work whole. The purpose of art, after all, is to create an effect.

Walking through the streets and museums of Florence, as tired and ancient that they may be, the art still roused within me vibrant and vicious images of life during the Rennaiscence. 600 years have passed and yet the art still stirs visitors such as me to stop and think and admire these great masterpieces. I wonder if any of our contemporary creations will be still be considered art six centuries from now.

I would regale you with more tales of Florence but the fact is: I don’t think I could say anything new or interesting about it. It’s beautiful, it’s rustic and probably has more masterpieces per square kilometre than anywhere else in the world but it’s all been said before. Instead, I thought I’d tell you a fun story from just outside Florence, in the rolling hills of Tuscany, Italy.

It all starts, as most things do, with a vision. In this case, literally a vision from the highest point in central Florence.

I was out of breath having just climbed the huge, never-ending hill behind the ginormous Palazzo Pitti (really, it’s disgustingly huge and pretty ugly to boot). While still nursing a full-body lactic acid build-up I decided to climb onto a rather narrow, precarious-looking wall and try to take a photo. That’s probably why the photo isn’t all that great — I was busy focusing on not falling off, and trying to catch my breath.

I don’t know who lives in that rather charming villa, but at that moment I decided to try and find out. I’d been trudging around the very small, densely-packed streets of Florence for three days and the view made me realise: I’m right in the middle of Tuscany, one of the most beautiful regions in Europe! With that epiphany I wasted no time and fled down the hill back to my hotel where I dumped my camera and any other valuables. I kept just my phone and some cash, and a piece of paper with my home address on it — why? I had no idea where I was going nor what I was going to do once I got there, wherever there might turn out to be. I didn’t want to put a total dampener on my trip and get mugged, so leaving the camera behind made sense, along with my credit cards and forms of identification (identity theft is serious business…!)

That means you don’t get any of my photos for this particular story; you’ll just have to imagine the horrors I’m about to describe.

I took the first bus that was heading out of town. I think it went west, but that’s just a guess — to this day, I don’t know where I went.  Looking at a map now it could’ve been Scandiaci or Rinaldi or… who knows? The bus slowly motored its way beyond the city limits and wound its way through the hilly, serpentine roads beyond. I stayed on the bus for about 15 minutes until I was far enough away to be out of my comfort zone, but not so far that I couldn’t get a taxi back if shit hit the fan. I hopped out with a Grazie to the bus driver and looked around — a nondescript road lined by nondescript turquoise-grey trees (olives?) — perfect; Tuscany!

Following the avenue (original, non-American definition) into the dark, unlit town I started to wonder if this was actually a good idea. Why do ideas always start off sounding really great? Something about the thought of eating chocolate cake is better than the actual eating? Did I mention that it was October and the sun was setting quickly behind the seemingly-uninhabited settlement; it was a very pretty sight, but quite unnerving too. What now, Seb? I stood in the middle of the town and looked about hopelessly.

It looked something like this only, um, darker — amazing how hard it is to find images of Italian villages in the dark…

There was only one building with lights on, a little way out of town and up a hill. Well, I either go and check if anyone’s in, or head back to Florence… Yet again, after the climb, I was out of breath. Holidays are, ironically, the only time I actually get cardiac exercise (I need a girlfriend). I raised my hand to knock but at at the exact same moment the door swung inward, the bright light framing and silhouetting a short, almost-spherical figure.

“Buonasera” a voice said said and I repeated it back to the shadowy person in acknowledgement, smiling apologetically for my English accent. There’s an uncomfortable moment where I can’t see their eyes but I know they’re looking at me, sizing me up. The shadow eventually steps back to hold the door open, revealing a quizzical middle-aged Italian woman whose every sense is boring into me. She sighs.“Prego, prego.” Reluctantly I am waved in and she shuts the door. Then she deadlocks it.

I follow her further into the old farmhouse, running my hands along pocked oak beams, nibbled for centuries by woodworm. The walls are rendered and bumpy, whitewashed in the simple, continental fashion. Brickwork appears in places, no doubt replacing damage sustained by continued use for — perhaps –  500 years. We reach the kitchen and I’m greeted by a wall of smiles — wonky, missing-toothed smiles, but happy faces nonetheless! I smile back at all five of them, not really sure of what the standard greeting for such an occasion is:

Hi, I’m a tourist with more money than sense, but I fancied a taste of real Italian food, so here I am, invading your lovely 16th century farmhouse with my fast, hairy, British body that is a good foot taller than your door frames;

I was pushed off the bus by a nasty driver, and I’m hungry and I have no where to sleep and I’m scared of the dark… so… if you could kindly look after me…

Considering I know almost no Italian, I had to settle for Buonasera, mi chiamo Sebastiano!!! which seemed to do the trick. Before I know it, I’m being ushered to the head of the table while the youngest son grabs some more cutlery. Over my left shoulder unnamed hands pass me crusty bread while the eldest son grins and passes me the olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Plates are being placed before me faster than I can clear them: salamis and prosciutto, lemon-marinated olives and bruschetta, slices of tomato and buffalo mozzarella — that was just the appetiser!

All told I think we had a total of five courses and about ten different dishes, each one washed down with the finest of Chiantis. There was even some fava beans, but the Hannibal Lecter joke that I delivered fell on unappreciative ears. Dessert consisted of biscotti dunked in thick, syrupy dessert wine that tasted like a pound of sugar diluted in water. And then coffee, of course, with a port chaser. Finally, after nodding and smiling through various stories — no doubt the standard, embarrassing family tales that are always brought out at special occasions — I curled up in front of the dying embers of their living room fire and fell asleep.

Sadly there was no dog to lick my toes, or a farmer’s daughter  to deflower but beggars can not be choosers, right? I’d succeeded in experiencing the familial Italian way of life and in eating lots of proper Italian food.

Next, I’m going to try and tackle the story of the Venetian jail without getting myself into trouble. But I reserve the right to skip right onto Rome…!

As I write this I’m tired. I’m just back from a family meet-up in London. I didn’t have enough sleep or coffee for the barrage of intimate and deeply-probing questions that septuagenarian Jewish females pitched at me over a four-hour period.

Not only is it the number of questions but the ferocity and varied intensity at which they are delivered. Think of them like baseball pitches: high, low; fast, slow; straight and curved — you need to be able to hit them all! Perhaps the key to surviving such a get-together is the ability to spot the same question but posed ever so slightly differently: Seb, what happened to that last girl, she was lovely is equivalent to What’s that girl’s name again? The one you dumped. Ah, yes, Alice? I hear she’s doing well now. Got her own business! which is the same as Seb, we’re all starting to wonder if you’re gay. You’re not gay are you? You better not be gay, you schmuck, I want grandchildren!

The following tips will help you with all kinds of family get-together, shindig or party. They may even help you with… a reunion; God have mercy on you! Don’t give up if you’re not a Jew — while Jewish relatives are undoubtedly the worst, that just means I’m able to give you even better tips. I’ve been torn to pieces so that you don’t have to!

1. Develop a benign smile

A good tip for almost every social encounter, a benign smile can see you through all but the worst and most embarrassing of situations. With a slight muscle twitch a benign smile can become an apologetic grin, or a toothy laugh as the old fogie delivers yet another awful anecdote from before the War. The reason this works is simple: when a relative isn’t asking you a deeply personal question, they don’t really expect you to talk. It’s your job to listen and look attentive. For bonus points: have a slice of the aforementioned ancestor’s cake at hand — occasionally eat a piece and make appreciative grunts as she talks to you, even if it tastes like crap.

2. Craft an air-tight cover story

Interrogation by persistent family members can be considerably worse than any and all forms employed both today and historically by international security agencies. You thought waterboarding was bad? Try being jabbed in the ribs with a 2-inch hard-lacquered fingernail. Repeatedly.

Thus, it’s important to have a cover story. Depending on your family or culture, you might want to flesh out particular aspects, but in general you must know the following two categories in great detail:

• Your job. You either have a job or you have very good prospects for a job. You are not sitting at home playing video games. You are not at university getting drunk and forgetting your own name every night.
• Your partner. Whether you have a boyfriend or girlfriend, for the sake of family get-togethers, you have a partner. Take a moment to flesh him or her out. Do they have a good job? Are they from a good (and Jewish, oy vey) family? The easiest solution here is to actually get a boyfriend or girlfriend. Never, ever admit to being single. For the sake of argument, a drunken kiss and fondle does count as a prospective relationship.

3. Appreciate the food, even if it tastes like refried week-old fish

Repeat after me: ‘Mmmm! That’s great! Did you put cinnamon in; or is that ginger? Either way it’s terrrrific!’

The only risk with such positive-reinforcement is that they might actually make it again. A fate worse than death. Hm, maybe you should just tell her that it tastes bad — cruel to be kind. But the point is: if you like the food, say so! When women get to a certain age, there isn’t much more to life than visiting the post office, writing letters or making food. Make your ancestor feel loved with a heart-felt ‘mmmm!’

4. Learn the ancestral language — Yiddish, Ebonics, German, whatever

At least in Jewish circles, a few choice phrases can propel you from ‘that runty kid with no chance of finding a nice wife’ all the way to ‘our favourite Sebby who is always given the first slice of cake’. A mazel tov here, a schnoz there and you’re well on your way to becoming the Favoured One. I can’t speak authoritatively for other backgrounds/cultures, but very few families are actually ‘old’ — go back a few generations and it’s almost guaranteed that some of your ancestors were immigrants — so the same trick is likely to work with most languages!

Of course, if you can trace both sides of your family back ten generations without leaving the country, then you’ve probably already gone to finishing school, learnt how to play polo and how to order man servants about — this guide probably isn’t of much use to you.

5. Ascertain your common ancestors and/or history

Nothing encourages love and camaraderie as quickly or firmly as locating a common ancestry! Perhaps you’re talking to a cute third-cousin-twice-removed (totally legal, at least here in the UK) and then you wow her by revealing that your parents and hers used to play naked in a sandpit together, back in 1965. You’ve as good as scored!

With younger relatives — the generation below — you can become good friends very quickly by warning them of what to expect when they get older. Tell a kid how to win the affections of his nasty, doddery grandmother and he’ll be eternally grateful.

With older relatives  it’s even easier as they’re so soppy and sentimental — trace their history back until you have a common ancestor, or ancestors that were siblings. Perhaps they were in Auschwitz together? Or worked at the same cotton farm? Finding such common ground is vital to forming strong familial bonds! And might even score you a sentence or two in their final will and testament!

* * *

Any similarities to actual members of my family either living or deceased are purely coincidental. This list is entirely fictitious and does not represent my actual views of my family meet-ups which are, incidentally, pure joy. Please do not stop bringing your lovely smoked salmon lemon drizzle cake to parties, grandma.

Silver (and orange and gold) Birches & Skirts, Knitwear, Coats

(Click each photo for a larger version)

Seb: I told you I’d be photographing Autumn (Fall)! I tried some oaks, some beeches… but none of them were quite autumny enough! The silver birches were the first trees to go truly ‘autumnal’ in our garden; beautifully golden and yellow, every gust of wind blowing yet another handful of leaves fluttering from bough to ground.

I almost took a photo from the ground up, so you could see the leaves amongst the grass, but this angle worked better. I love how the very bright sun is just dappled enough to make this photo possible (though you can see a gap where the leaves didn’t quite block enough sunlight to prevent overexposure… damn!) — and of course, once the light passes through the yellow leaves… the ambient light is GOLDEN!

England — at least the south — is beautiful right now. It’s warm, but the nights have an edge of chill just to remind you of what’s coming. I’ve started wearing socks again! And most importantly, it’s blustery. If you’ve never been in a British forest in the Autumn with the wind blustering all about you, head hunkered down into your jacket to keep your ears warm — if you’ve never done that, you really ought to.

Abi: Skirts, Knitwear, Coats: The last days of Summer. The colder months are just around the corner… I hate to say it but lately the air has been all “back to school” cold in the mornings and I have stopped wanting to sleep naked, covered only by a white sheet at night. Soon the leaves will turn and fall and we will be no stranger to socks and practical footwear. But I’m OK with that, I like Autumn.

I took this when I was out and about yesterday. If ever you wondered where “Women of a Certain Age” go to get their clothes, then I think this is it. I am not sure if this type of fashion emporium cater for seasonal change.. nor am I certain of the approximate age when women are supposed to offer these places their custom, but the handpainted sign got me and seemed somewhat appropriate for the coming season.

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Seb’s Flickr Stream — Abi’s Flickr Stream — you can comment here, or there!

Darkness.

Enigma.

Secret.

Curiousity.

Surprise.

Paranormal.

Superstition.

Rapture.

Riddle.

Myth. Magic. Mystery.

* * *

The definition of mystery, though multi-faceted, is a good place to start:

Anything that arouses curiosity or perplexes because it is unexplained, inexplicable, or secret.

That [which] is not fully understood or that baffles or eludes understanding; an enigma.

But it goes further. I’m not the only one that has noticed the prevalence of mysticism in contemporary civilisation:

The skills, lore, or practices that are peculiar to a particular activity or group and are regarded as the special province of initiates.

A religious truth that is incomprehensible to reason and knowable only through divine revelation.

An incident from the life of Jesus, especially the Incarnation, Passion, Crucifixion, or Resurrection, of particular importance for redemption.

The derivation is even more interesting:

From Latin mystērium, from Greek mustērion, secret rite, from mustēs, an initiate, from mūein, to close the eyes, initiate.

So you can see, the concept of mystery is old and likely prehistoric, pre-dating all forms of modern civilisation. Though Christianity is the only religion mentioned by name in the definitions, all theistic religions rely solely on mystery as their driving force; their ‘hook’, if you will. That’s why those few that actually communicate with God (or gods) are referred to as ‘mystics’ — they’re dealing with mysterious, inexplicable, unprovable phenomena. Gods are mysteries, in other words.

The fundamental axiom of all advanced lifeforms can be generalised as ‘What’s around the next corner?’ On a low-level it might be as simple as finding new hunting grounds; for humans it might as complex as finding a new partner, a new job — either way, it’s about moving. Not necessarily forward or back, but moving. There are higher concepts but at the end of the day it’s exploration and horizon-hunting that really does it for us; what really satisfies us.

Why then are we so damn addicted to mystery? Mystery is the polar opposite of exploration, science, truth. But we embrace it! We find comfort in the not-knowing. We set out on epic journeys to seek out new continents and new civilisations, all the while seeking solace in the gods that illumine starlit skies. There’s something about that which we do not know.

And these mysteries will forever remain because we don’t try too hard to solve them. No matter how hard we try, a mystery remains just beyond the reach of our grasping fingertips — or rather, we don’t stretch our hands too far in case we actually reach the mystery. The moment we close our fingers and find it to be nothing more than insubstantial smoke and deceptive mirrors — we shatter. Our world-view contorts and shifts and finally buckles under its elusive enormity. The shattered fragments of mystery lay limp and unravelled between our fingers. There’s nothing there. There never has been. There never will be.

Gosh.

Why do we keep reaching? Why do we raise our hands to the sky in search of salvation and heavenly oases?

Why does it hurt so much when we find out that a mystery is really nothing more than random chance or laws of physics? Because we’re rational creatures; we feast on order, reason. For every effect we must attribute a cause.

Someone somewhere once prayed to the very first heavenly and inexplicable body: the stars. The constellation of Orion perhaps. ‘Let tomorrow’s hunt be a success’ he prayed. And you know what? It was. The hunt was a rave success. Forever after, he prayed to the stars.

Then one day, sometime in the near future, the hunt wasn’t a success. In fact, some of the hunters were gored by the wild boar and died. So of course he prayed harder. What other option was there?

Medieval Portal & Humbug Head
(Click for larger)

Seb: Ightham Mote, a house in Kent, England, dates back to the 1300s. It’s been levelled a few times, cut up and resculpted and had its innards gutted and sold off numerous times — but there has been SOMETHING here since the 1300s.

About 20 years ago the National Trust bought it and have been managing it since — and it’s lovely!

The blue windows were a bit of luck — it had been raining all day, but when we finally got there the skies opened up and… BLAM! Blue skies, reflected in the windows.

If you squint closely (or view it larger) you can see someone waiting at the end of the tunnel.

Ah! And the derivation of Mote — it’s NOT a typo. It has nothing to do with the moat that runs around the house. Mote is old-English apparently, for ‘meet’ — and druids and the like would meet at Ightham Mote, back in the medieval days. So there you go.

* * *

Abi: Regular visitors to my Flickr stream will know all about my cat Sixx. I have to confess, I never really thought of myself as a cat person, until I got her (I have always wanted a dog). I don’t think Sixx is actually like any other cat I have ever met.

This shot was originally going to be a photo of some cozy blankets and a hot water bottle, as a nod towards the darker evening and colder weather. Obviously Sixx thought she could improve upon it in some way, by sticking her small, soft head into shot at the last moment, what a rebel. I can’t really argue with that…

One of my favourite things about her is the top of her head. I love these markings, almost like a humbug. Many of you won’t know why she is called Sixx but I named her after Nikki Sixx from Motley Crue. Yes, she is that cool.

Wee-eee-eee… wee-um-a-way…

Imbube… imbube… imbube…

Last night, Eric, our blind cat, died. It was quick. He died at peace, asleep. Fourteen good, solid, there’s-a-good-cat, mouse-catching, rabbit-snarfling and pigeon-scaring years.

Earlier this year Mango, Eric’s sister, died. Eric himself is survived by his brother, Sammy, who is now the last surviving member of a very long line of beautiful cats that we’ve been lucky enough to rear or look after. Fourteen years is pretty good for a cat. I suppose I should tell you the story I’ve always avoided telling… because it’s sappy.

I’ve always referred to him as ‘the blind cat’ — but he hasn’t always been that way! Quite the opposite. For 13 years he enjoyed life to the max. But the funny thing is, we don’t even know what Eric did for nine of those years. He disappeared when he was just out of adolescence – we hadn’t neutered him, you see. We figured he’d run off, become one with nature, the woodlands, feral. Days, weeks, months passed — it was obvious he wasn’t coming back.

And then 3 years ago… he reappeared. First we saw fleeting glimpses of a cat that looked ‘a bit like Eric’ — but we assumed it couldn’t actually be him. He’s hardly unique in appearance. We figured it was just another cat. Then, after a few months of skulking about, he just wandered into my grandmother’s house next door… and sat. She fed him. He hung around. Eventually he came back to our house and settled back into his old home, as if he’d never left.

How crazy is that?

And crazier… someone had snipped his balls off. Eric had actually lived with another family for all those years. And then come back to us! What the hell. Maybe he was close-by all those years — or maybe he just went for a walk one day and spotted a house that looked vaguely familiar, or a rabbit hole that he used to frequent… and came to investigate. Who knows, to be honest. I’ve never really bet a ‘pet person’, but in this case… I really would like to have known Eric’s story. Maybe those that looked after him for those 9 years will find my website and get in touch.

So this page is dedicated to you, Eric. Eighth and last kitten of Madonna’s (don’t ask) mighty brood.

And of course, who can forget his most famous escapade: Eric, the blind cat, chooses a competition winner:

We have just one cat now. He’s quite young though, and very healthy (i.e. fat) — he’s also very pretty. But who wants pretty when you can have character instead? Why should I make do with fat-and-lazy when I used to have rugged-and-soulful? Bah.

RIP Eric. You were a good cat.

I’m stretched really thin at the moment, so the best I can do is a damn history lesson.

Let me tell you a little about Lindfield. It’s one of many ancient towns that dots the south of England. It has existed in some form or another way back into prehistoric antiquity, but apparently it entered ‘modern’ history back in 765AD. There’s a photo (below) of the oldest ‘original’ building in the town below — it’s called the Church House now. It doesn’t look that old though; it’s probably been rebuilt a dozen times in its life. No one knows exactly how old it is, but it dates back to around 1100 — 900 years old!

The name of the town comes from the Saxon/Old English ‘Lindefeldia’ — you gotta love old place names, they’re so simple — it literally means ‘field with lime trees’. You Americans probably don’t realise this, but almost every English town name has a very literal meaning. My nearby town of Crawley, for example, means ‘a meeting place for crows’. York (as in New York!) probably comes from ‘a place of yew trees’, but it’s been through about four different languages and transliterations to arrive at modern English. Obviously ‘Palm Springs’ is the modern-day equivalent of such naming schemes…

[Did I bore you all yet? No? Great!]

Anyway, fast forward a few hundred years and Lindfield is now a proper town on the route between London and Brighton. There’s a lot of 15th and 16th century buildings (big, exposed wooden beams) that were probably built by important Tudors. One of them is a ‘hunting lodge’ (it’s huge), and it’s near the church, so that’s probably where some king or prince hung out during the hunting season.

Most of the modern High Street (do you have that term in America? Or is it just ‘central avenue’ or something?) is 17th and 18th century. It’s almost entirely Georgian architecture. There’s a big manor in the middle of town (I didn’t get a photo), but it’s been renovated so many times that it’s impossible to say how old it is. The fascia is Georgian (and painted a nasty grey/green), but if you look at the side/back it’s obviously a lot older. A lot of old England suffers from this problem — damn FASHIONS! It’s not uncommon to see a 400-year-old house with 1970s-style rendering on the outside. Makes me die a little inside.

Lindfield even has an original red post box AND telephone box. You’ll need to be British to really appreciate this — everyone else, just… I don’t know… take my word for it: they’re a massive part of modern English history. Anyway, enough with the lecture (but feel free to ask for more info if something tickled you) — on with the pretty photos!

I have some awesome sunset photos which I need to share at some stage. I guess I can put a few up here tomorrow, and some on Flickr.

(Note that the church house used to be a pub… ah, irony…)

(The sun’s really starting to set by the time I took this photo… lovely.)

(This isn’t the most amazing photo in the world, but it’s pretty rare to find both famous red boxes next to each other. Only in ancient towns like Lindfield I guess!)

(The old people walking towards us would, in about 30 seconds, be treated to the spectacle of my mother and I playing around in the phone box…)

As you can see, I didn’t actually get many photos of old houses — because I’m a die-hard landscape photographer. The first photo, of the house, is pretty nice though, right? It’s just that the sun was very low, and all the ancient Tudor houses were in the shade of other houses and trees.

Anyway, some sunset photos to follow!