Friday 6 April 2012

Friday.


Herewith, as promised, photograph of Southwold Jack shown the right way up. I've been talking to Nea (second daughter) and she has been telling me of ways to  control the computer and make it behave.
 Back to Southwold Jack. If you enlarge the photo you should be able to see that he is a correctly turned out man-at-arms of the late 15th century. He is red-eyed and unshaven because he has been up all night striking the hours on the clock bell. He is the kind of fresh faced young countryman you can still frequently see in our area. He is mounted high up on the west wall inside Southwold Church.



Took the above photo at about noon yesterday at Southwold looking north.

Spent most of today cleaning a pair of five foot gilded oak candlesticks (gesso work) from St. Mary's Church, at the request of the Dean. They were covered in generations of dust and wax drippings. Been hard work, but they look better now.

Good night all.

8 comments:

Nea said...

I miss the smell of the sea :(

Unknown said...

Libby Purves, in one of her books about sailing round our coast, says that that smell (seaweed and ozone) is one that she always associates with coming into harbour from the sea, and therefore for her it is the smell of the land.

Crowbard said...

I miss the coastal smell...

Unknown said...

Dear Crowbard. What a very sensible compromise!!!!

Unknown said...

Dear Crowbard. What a very sensible compromise!!!!

Crowbard said...

Yes Mike, but like all compromises it is flawed. All the emotion, nostalgia, poetry and maritime romance is set adrift on a ramshackle raft of practicality, meet-in-the-middle, make-do-and-mend. In truth Ruthie and I miss the smell of the sea whatever round-the-world-Yachts-persons may miss.

Nea said...

How about, I miss the smell of the sea-side :)

Crowbard said...

Do you know Pooh, that evokes an entirely different smell for me - where the salty-ozone is masked with the whiffs of pop-corn, candy-floss, burgers-with-onions, stale beer and baccy; all to the accompaniment of distant fair-ground music. I love the beside-the-sea smells but I don't miss the sea-side pong one bit. (What a curmudgeonly old uncle you have!)