It is thought that the mill was a woolen mill, as the land in this area is farmland primarily for sheep. We think that our distant relative lived here at some stage. It is now owned by a family in London who keep it as a holiday house.
It was Spring time when we were in Wales and the hedgerows were in full bloom with wildflowers. This little clump of violets was in a narrow laneway just near the old mill at Farthings Hook in Pembrokeshire.
Just love love love these hats! I photographed them last time I was in Istanbul. I've tried them on. I've tried to find a reason to buy one. But the reality is, I don't have a hat head ... and what's the point of a hat if you can't wear it ... Fabulous as it is (the hat I mean, not the head).
I think someone creative decided to do a modern variation on the Fez and this is what they came up with. The hats are fun and quirky and beautifully made ... perhaps I'll buy one next time. ;o)
This is the photo I took two years ago in the same shop
He had her pressed between his body and the railing of the ferry’s lower deck. The winds of the Bosphorus caught her dark hair and flicked it into her face and he gently pushed it behind her ears and kissed her. They were oblivious to all around them. Istanbul’s skyline receding into the haze of a summery afternoon, the seagulls diving and soaring in the wake of the ferry, the chatter and press of a hundred passengers. At times all you could see of her was her arm around his waist or her hand on the back of his neck. She was tiny and he was tall and broad. He engulfed her. She looked up at him shyly and he slipped his hands under the sleeves of her white dress so they were touching her skin. The warmth of them against the coolness of her back. He nuzzled her neck and her almond eyes closed, lost in the moment.
Later, he left her for a little while, to buy water and freshly baked simit for them both.
Oh how her heart ached for his return.
“Is there anyone in the group who is a pianist?” he asked.
I raised my hand.
“You play?” he questioned me.
We were standing next to a magnificent antique piano in the Dolmabache Palace, Istanbul. The guide was like a robot, you couldn’t ask questions because it would interupt his patter. The tour was a blur, we practically ran through the palace. It was hard to hear him, hard to keep up and nearly impossible to take photos. Partly because of the pace and partly because it was so dimly lit. I had reluctantly joined a tour of 35 people as the only way to gain admittance to the Palace, it was a public holiday and it was hot. It was all starting to feel like a mistake.
"Yes." I said.
“I am a little out of practice”, I admitted. It wasn’t as if he was about to let me loose on the instrument anyway.
“Do not call yourself a pianist then.” he snapped back abruptly and turned away.
“I’ll call myself anything I want” I answered back. I was stunned at his attitude.
“Only joking madam” he said. Trying to recover the situation.
I knew he wasn’t.
"Reach for the top she said
And the sun is gonna shine
Every winter was a war she said
I want to get what's mine."
Listen to Sade here
The Common Jezebel (Delias eucharis) is a medium sized butterfly found in Asia. the Jezebels, consist of about 200 species. The Delias group of butterflies are considered as having their evolutionary origins in the Australian region.
This is one of my favourite places in the world.
I was walking past and couldn’t resist another visit.
From the street, you would never know it was there. A small unassuming stone building not much bigger than a bus shelter marks its location at street level. And sometimes a telltale queue of tourists might indicate that there was something to be seen there. For only 10 lire you enter this underground cavern.
A beautiful piece of Byzantine engineering, this cavernous vault was built by Justinian in 532 to satisfy the growing need for water for the Great Palace. For a century after the Ottoman conquest it remained undiscovered. It was only after locals starting lowering buckets through holes in their basements to collect water or to catch fish, that it was rediscovered.
Only two thirds of the original structure remains visible, the rest was bricked up during the 19th century. The roof is held up by 336 columns, each over 8m (26ft) high.
Visitors walk along walkways listening to the echoing sounds of classical music and dripping water. It is cool and dark and tranquil; an unexpected sanctuary in contrast to the bustle of modern Istanbul above.
At the far end of the structure, two columns rest on bases shaped in the form of Medusa's head. Plundered from earlier Byzantine monuments, they are thought to mark a shrine to the water nymphs.
I took some photos and drank in the atmosphere and then ascended blinking at the brightness and the heat of the midday sun.
He bought an old house.
And in the old house
was an old cupboard.
And in the cupboard
was a Box Brownie
left by the old couple
who had once lived
in the old house.
I had walked around the block at least twice.
I could hear the call of the mezzuin from the minarets above (or at least the recordings blaring out of the speakers mounted there). Men of all ages rushed passed me and disappeared
through narrow doorways that led to dark stairways.
I just wasn’t sure if I could follow them.
I had been told that this was one of the prettiest mosques in Istanbul, adorned with blue Iznik tiles... but I couldn’t find my way in. I was standing right underneath it, but the walls on all four sides had been given over to market stalls. It was hot and crowded, Istanbul was on holiday and so was I. I bought a bottle of water from a man selling out of a shopping trolley in the middle of the laneway and sighed,
I wasn’t giving up.
A nearby shopkeeper tried to sell me something.
“I am looking for the mosque” I said. “The Rüstem Pasha Mosque”.
I must have sounded silly because clearly we were standing right underneath it.
“How do I get in?” I asked.
“This way” he said and he disappeared into a sea of people.
I hurried to keep up. We retraced my steps around the corner and
he pointed to one of the narrow entrances I had been too afraid to take.
“Here, you go up.” he said.
“Is it OK?” I asked, I wasn’t sure if women were allowed,
certainly not foreign ones like me.
“Yes, yes” he said “It’s OK”. I started to wrap my pashmina across my bare shoulders and he shook his head, “You don’t have to” he said, “it’s OK, go up”.
I left him at the bottom of the stairs, men were still rushing past me on their way to prayer. At the top of the second flight of stairs a cool open courtyard greeted me. A large collection of shoes and sandals lay in a haphazard pile near the entrance to the mosque, and a handful of other tourists were waiting patiently for prayer time to finish.
A few women arrived to pray, dressed in long sleeved feraces and headscarves, leaving their shoes at the door they went into pray in their place behind the men.
I sat on the raised area in front of the mosque, the stone was cool and there was a gentle sea breeze coming from the Golden Horn.
In front of me was a stone fountain for washing.
Next to it was a 2 litre water bottle filled with pink detergent.
Behind me, at the mosque’s facade, a few men lined up to pray.
I placed my camera on the ground next to where I sat, and pointing it away from me, I pressed the shutter.