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| Imagine something like this... |
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| Voila! Several hundred rows and hours later... |
Sunday 29 April 2012
Tangled Up
A few months ago I started what I nicknamed the amazing-technicoloured-scarf-project.
Having never before wielded a pair of knitting needles I spent at least a few
hours fumbling a ball of wool and chasing it across the floor like some crazed
cat. However through the wonders of the modern internet I was able to watch a
how-to-video and, voila, within minutes I was off and clacking.
Having now almost reached the end of the scarf I wanted to
share an image of my handiwork. After the success of this project I hope my
friends, family and loved ones are prepared to receive hole-ridden, wonky,
hand-knitted scarves as gifts for the foreseeable future.
Sunday 22 April 2012
Axe-Wielding Hairy Anglo-Saxons
This past week I have been wading through what seemed like a
never-ending mire of books about Anglo-Saxons. This is a period which has been variously
and confusingly described as both ‘Late Antique’ and ‘Early Medieval’. Clearly
those poor Anglo-Saxons didn’t know when to set their alarm clocks for. Somewhat
to my surprise I have found myself enjoying this rapid submergence into
Anglo-Saxon culture. It was with some delight, therefore, that I managed to
unearth an article about Anglo-Saxon tiles.
In the Yorkshire Museum (located unsurprisingly perhaps in York) there are on display a selection of tiles believed to date from the eleventh century. The tiles are thought to have come from what might have been the south transept of All Saints’ Church, Pavement. There are various geometric designs and patterns in relief and coloured with different glazes. Particularly striking is the olive green colour which was produced by combining a transparent (yellow) lead glaze over a grey fabric.
The tiles found at York are believed to be part of a series with examples also located in Canterbury, Winchester and Peterborough. Their presence therefore at such a small and less high-status church can lead to some interesting conclusions. The famous Coppergate helmet (c.750-75) included an invocation to All Saints’ Church suggesting that the origins of the church could be traced back to the eighth century. It is then a possibility that All Saints’ church was a pre-Conquest minster and the use of the tiles marked it out as a church of some significance.
In the Yorkshire Museum (located unsurprisingly perhaps in York) there are on display a selection of tiles believed to date from the eleventh century. The tiles are thought to have come from what might have been the south transept of All Saints’ Church, Pavement. There are various geometric designs and patterns in relief and coloured with different glazes. Particularly striking is the olive green colour which was produced by combining a transparent (yellow) lead glaze over a grey fabric.
The tiles found at York are believed to be part of a series with examples also located in Canterbury, Winchester and Peterborough. Their presence therefore at such a small and less high-status church can lead to some interesting conclusions. The famous Coppergate helmet (c.750-75) included an invocation to All Saints’ Church suggesting that the origins of the church could be traced back to the eighth century. It is then a possibility that All Saints’ church was a pre-Conquest minster and the use of the tiles marked it out as a church of some significance.
Sunday 15 April 2012
Blood & Guts...
Cautious of being simply
a one trick pony and what might be perceived as a recent favouritism for
romantic sappiness I decided it was high-time for some violence, gore and
primal yelling... Rawrr!
It was a careless stumble instead of the years of dedicated practice which ultimately saved his life. A clumsy step of a hesitant foot sent the blade nicking the soft flesh of his cheek rather than slicing through the throbbing pulse of his neck. His knee rapped the frozen ground and he instinctually rolled to miss the next deadly slash of his opponent’s blade. Clumps of ice adhered to the length of his cloak as it swept across the earth under him. Using his free hand he collected the cold and sharp deposits. Launching himself upwards with the full strength of his flexing thigh muscles he hurled frozen shards into the eyes of his opponent. The man reared back sharply hands flying belatedly to protect his face. It was all the opportunity he needed. Grip firm on the handle of his sword he hacked across the now unguarded man. He watched dispassionately as the blood spurted bright and fast across the man’s surcoat. Kicking the man to the ground with the force of his boot he stood over him. He yanked off his helm and tossed it carelessly aside. Waiting for the flicker of recognition that widened the man’s eyes he smiled before plunging the blade cleanly and precisely through the man’s heart.
It was a merciful death really, he mused, as he withdrew the sword and patiently waited for the remainder of the man’s blood to seep out from the gaping wound. There were worse ways to die, worse ways to suffer. Bending down he wiped the blade clean on the bloodied surcoat and gazed for a moment at the unwavering stare of the dead man. A young dead man then, barely knighted a day from the look of him, he noted with cool detachment. The killing of a young man meant as little to him as killing of a grandfather. Dead was dead.
Rising he spat, a globule of saliva hanging from his chin, as he attempted to rid the metallic taste from his mouth. A bloodied face, banged up knee and a few bruised ribs proved the youth had managed to get in a few shots of his own. The fight had not been as effortless as it ought to have been, or once would have been, and his breath was still sawing painfully against his ribs. Now in the guttering embers of the fight he began to feel once more the biting cold of his surroundings. He wondered briefly when he had become an old man. The wraith of his nemesis circled his memory tauntingly, hardening his resolve and the plains of his face. Shoving the woollen mitts further down his hands he re-sheathed the sword at his side and set out again into the bleak wilderness.
It was a careless stumble instead of the years of dedicated practice which ultimately saved his life. A clumsy step of a hesitant foot sent the blade nicking the soft flesh of his cheek rather than slicing through the throbbing pulse of his neck. His knee rapped the frozen ground and he instinctually rolled to miss the next deadly slash of his opponent’s blade. Clumps of ice adhered to the length of his cloak as it swept across the earth under him. Using his free hand he collected the cold and sharp deposits. Launching himself upwards with the full strength of his flexing thigh muscles he hurled frozen shards into the eyes of his opponent. The man reared back sharply hands flying belatedly to protect his face. It was all the opportunity he needed. Grip firm on the handle of his sword he hacked across the now unguarded man. He watched dispassionately as the blood spurted bright and fast across the man’s surcoat. Kicking the man to the ground with the force of his boot he stood over him. He yanked off his helm and tossed it carelessly aside. Waiting for the flicker of recognition that widened the man’s eyes he smiled before plunging the blade cleanly and precisely through the man’s heart.
It was a merciful death really, he mused, as he withdrew the sword and patiently waited for the remainder of the man’s blood to seep out from the gaping wound. There were worse ways to die, worse ways to suffer. Bending down he wiped the blade clean on the bloodied surcoat and gazed for a moment at the unwavering stare of the dead man. A young dead man then, barely knighted a day from the look of him, he noted with cool detachment. The killing of a young man meant as little to him as killing of a grandfather. Dead was dead.
Rising he spat, a globule of saliva hanging from his chin, as he attempted to rid the metallic taste from his mouth. A bloodied face, banged up knee and a few bruised ribs proved the youth had managed to get in a few shots of his own. The fight had not been as effortless as it ought to have been, or once would have been, and his breath was still sawing painfully against his ribs. Now in the guttering embers of the fight he began to feel once more the biting cold of his surroundings. He wondered briefly when he had become an old man. The wraith of his nemesis circled his memory tauntingly, hardening his resolve and the plains of his face. Shoving the woollen mitts further down his hands he re-sheathed the sword at his side and set out again into the bleak wilderness.
Sunday 8 April 2012
I Spy...
It is dangerous when
you overhear a random snatch of conversation on a train. Even after it has
passed out of use you continue to wonder what it might have meant. On
overhearing the statement “he used to be a spy” I could not help the imagining
of a little scene of my own.
“He used to be a spy.” The statement sunk in the silence like the proverbial stone. “He led a band of mercenaries.” There was little obvious discomfort in her sister’s composure, though Eleanor liked to imagine that the needle was stabbed into the tapestry with an overabundance of necessary force. “He murdered his second wife.” She tried again, injecting more blood-thirsty relish into her words. Finally she was rewarded with a satisfying response.
“Blast,” came the reply as her sister retrieved her hand from below the material and sucked the welling blood from an injured fingertip. “Accursed needle.” She muttered with a frown of annoyance for the offending instrument.
“Oh come on Anne. Are you not in the least bit curious?” She asked of her sister, practically aquiver with curiosity herself. “You might be living next door to a murderer. How dreadfully exciting. Nothing exciting ever happens to me.” She ended with an exaggerated sigh that made it halfway to a pout.
Anne eyed her younger sister, who was slouched carelessly with legs hooked over the arm of the chair and a foot absentmindedly kicking the air. She hid her smile of affectionate amusement and murmured quietly.
“Two wives, my, how terribly careless of him.” Eleanor rolled her eyes expressing a youthful contempt for her sister’s facetiousness.
“I knew you were listening! And I do not know why you pretend to be so fastidious about village gossip. They talk about our lives often enough.” Anne pressed a gentle hand to the tapestry she had been embroidering, as if in smoothing out the creases of the material on her lap she could rid the lines of worry from her own brow.
“I simply think we should avoid prematurely judging others.” She said in a carefully measured voice. “Remember poor Mistress Hawthorne? A few carless moments of gossip and everyone believed her to be a witch, when nothing could have been further from the truth.” Eleanor had the decency to look shame-faced for at least half a minute before whispering with a wicked light in her eye,
“He’s bound to be handsome though with a reputation like that.”
“He used to be a spy.” The statement sunk in the silence like the proverbial stone. “He led a band of mercenaries.” There was little obvious discomfort in her sister’s composure, though Eleanor liked to imagine that the needle was stabbed into the tapestry with an overabundance of necessary force. “He murdered his second wife.” She tried again, injecting more blood-thirsty relish into her words. Finally she was rewarded with a satisfying response.
“Blast,” came the reply as her sister retrieved her hand from below the material and sucked the welling blood from an injured fingertip. “Accursed needle.” She muttered with a frown of annoyance for the offending instrument.
“Oh come on Anne. Are you not in the least bit curious?” She asked of her sister, practically aquiver with curiosity herself. “You might be living next door to a murderer. How dreadfully exciting. Nothing exciting ever happens to me.” She ended with an exaggerated sigh that made it halfway to a pout.
Anne eyed her younger sister, who was slouched carelessly with legs hooked over the arm of the chair and a foot absentmindedly kicking the air. She hid her smile of affectionate amusement and murmured quietly.
“Two wives, my, how terribly careless of him.” Eleanor rolled her eyes expressing a youthful contempt for her sister’s facetiousness.
“I knew you were listening! And I do not know why you pretend to be so fastidious about village gossip. They talk about our lives often enough.” Anne pressed a gentle hand to the tapestry she had been embroidering, as if in smoothing out the creases of the material on her lap she could rid the lines of worry from her own brow.
“I simply think we should avoid prematurely judging others.” She said in a carefully measured voice. “Remember poor Mistress Hawthorne? A few carless moments of gossip and everyone believed her to be a witch, when nothing could have been further from the truth.” Eleanor had the decency to look shame-faced for at least half a minute before whispering with a wicked light in her eye,
“He’s bound to be handsome though with a reputation like that.”
Sunday 1 April 2012
Picture & Putt
This week brought along the extraordinary opportunity to
visit St Andrews. Though only a flying visit, the adorable hotel room,
ice-cream weather and picturesque ruins combined to give a highly favourable
impression of the pretty Scottish coastal town. And I didn’t even play a single
round of golf!
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| St Andrews' Cathedral east end and St Rule's Tower |
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| Chapter House entrance looking out to the Cloister |
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| Detail of Chapter House door arch |
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| St Andrews' Castle |
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| View of St Andrews' Castle |
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| Blackfriar's Chapel |
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| St Andrews' Harbour |
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| Waiting at the station |
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