'Under the Greenwood Tree'

'Far from the Madding Crowd'

This is Dorset - Hardy country
It was here, under a deep cosy thatch, that Thomas Hardy was born, and where he wrote some of his most famous works gazing out of the windows to Thorncombe Wood and beyond

On this settle, by the fireplace, the family would gather to tell stories, sing songs, play their fiddles, celebrate birthdays and Christmas, mourn the loss of family and friends, and enjoy all the customs and traditions of Dorset.

Here is the ancient floor,

Footworn and hollowed and thin,

Here was the former door

Where the dead feet walked in

She sat here in her chair, 

Smiling into the fire;

He who played stood there,

Bowing it higher and higher

Childlike, I danced in a dream;

Blessings emblazoned that day;

Everything glowed with a gleam;

Yet we were looking away!

'The Self-Unseeing'

'Once more the cauldron of the sun

smears the bookcase with winy red,

And here my page is, and there my bed,

And the apple-tree shadows travel along

Soon their intangible track will be run,

And dusk grow strong

And they have fled'

From 'The Sun on the Bookcase'

As a young boy Thomas would sit on the window seat or at his little old table writing poems about the countryside. Four of his early novels were written here including 'Under the Greenwood Tree' and 'Far From the Madding Crowd'.

Hardy's little old table had a special place in his heart as it was a gift from his mother, so much so he wrote a poem about it:

Creak, little wood thing, creak,

When I touch you with elbow or knee;

That is the way you speak

Of one who gave you to me!

You, little table, she brought -

Brought me with her own hand

As she looked at me with a thought

That I did not understand.

Whoever owns it anon,

And hears it, will never know

What a history hangs upon

This creak from long ago

The little table shown here is a replica - the original now resides in the Dorset County Museum 

via

Thomas Hardy - 1840 - 1928

One of the most renowned poets and novelists in English literary history. 

When he died his ashes were deposited in Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey, London, and his heart was interred in the graveyard at Stinsford Church, Dorset, where his parents, grandparents, and his first wife were buried.

Vintage Railway Travel Posters

From a Railway Carriage by Robert Louis Stevenson

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,

Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches,

And charging along like troops in a battle,

All through the meadows the horses and cattle:

All of the sights of the hill and the plain

Fly as thick as driving rain:

And ever again in the wink of an eye.

Painted stations whistle by.

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,

All by himself and gathering brambles;

Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;

And there is a green for stringing daisies!

Here is a cart run away in the road

Lumping along with man and load;

And here is a mill and there is a river:

Each a glimpse and gone forever!

Many of these vintage railway posters were designed and illustrated by well known artists of the day such as the one above by Stanhope Alexander Forbes, a founding member of the influential Newlyn school of painters. His father was a Railway Manager in London, and his elder brother was also a Railway Manager who worked for the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway.

via

............PRELUDE............

Taking a blogging break - using the dulcet tone and words of Sir David Frost "the clues are there"!!!

Considering the Snail by Thom Gunn 1929 - 2004

The snail pushes through a green

night, for the grass is heavy

with water and meets over

the bright path he makes, where rain

has darkened the earth's dark. He

moves in a wood of desire,

pale antlers barely stirring

as he hunts, I cannot tell

what power is at work, drenched there

with purpose, knowing nothing.

What is a snail's fury? All 

I think is that if later

I parted the blades above

the tunnel and saw the thin

trail of broken white across 

litter, I would never have

imagined the slow passion

to that deliberate progress. 

I took this image of a snail one night following a rainy day. The snail was slowly making its way up our window. I photographed it from inside the house and the snail and the night sky were lit up by the flash light on my camera. Next morning I was delighted to discover that the snail had disappeared and gone on its way.

A Spiders' Web

Joining in with ♥woolf♥ on her mandala challenge.

early morning September sun rise with mist

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness together with intricate mandalas, cunningly and cleverly created by spiders

via wikipedia

St Pancras International Railway Station

We left for the Moselle Valley from our local railway station, via London, to catch the Eurostar train to Brussels. Our station was part of the first major British railway construction for the Great Western Railway designed by Isambard Kingdom Brunel.

Isambard Kingdom Brunel
via wikipedia

A contemporary and historic photo of the great train shed at St. Pancras.
via wikipedia

Departing for the Continent on the Eurostar train to Brussels rather than by plane was something that we had been looking forward to. We were keen to see St. Pancras following it's £800 million renovation which was opened by the Queen in 2007.
The train journey from London to Brussels takes two hours exactly.

A fitting monument in the station is the statue of the late poet laureate John Betjeman, the people's poet. It was John Betjeman who helped to save St. Pancras from demolition in the 1960s, and it is only right that he should be honoured with a seven-foot high bronze statue on the main concourse of the new station next to the arrival point of the Eurostar train. The statue depicts him walking into the new station for the first time. He is looking up at the great arc of the train shed, which he always did because "it took his breath away". He is leaning back, holding onto his hat, his coat billowing out behind him, caught by the wind from a passing train, and carrying his large Billingsgate Fish Market bag of books. The sculptor, Martin Jennings, has skillfully captured his eccentric slightly shabby appearance. His shoelace and unkempt collar are undone. He has knotted string for one shoelace, and his right trouser leg is hitched at 'half mast' above his shoe. He stands on discs of Cumbrian slate inscribed with his name, dates, and the words "Who saved this glorious station", along with quotations from his poetry. Few poets could have a firmer place in the affections of all those who enjoy poetry than John Betjeman.

St Pancras is often termed the 'cathedral of the railways' and includes two of the most celebrated structures built in Britain during the Victorian era. The train shed completed in 1868 by the engineer William Henry Barlow was the largest single-span structure built up to that time. The frontage of the station encompasses the Midland Grand Hotel opened in 1873, and since restoration known as the St.Pancras Renaissance London Hotel, designed by Sir George Gilbert Scott.

Historic photo of the Midland Grand Hotel

newly restored and renamed St. Pancras Renaissance London Hotel

Sir George Gilbert Scott's lavish Victorian Gothic interiors, sharing similarities with Augustus Charles Pugin whom he was greatly influenced by.

The extraordinary double staircase is an example of high Victorian gothic decoration. The balustrading, in wrought iron, contains original gas fittings and snakes three stories up to a vaulted cathedral like ceiling.

Lower part of the ceiling visible

From the ground floor looking up to the central part of the ceiling

The central atrium in the hotel

images courtesy Marriott Hotels & wikipedia

WARNING - by Jenny Joseph - a Cotswold poet

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple

with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

and satin sandles, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired

and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

and run my stick along the public railings

and make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

and pick the flowers in other people's gardens 

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

and eat three pounds of sausages at a go

or only bread and pickles for a week

and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

and pay our rent and not swear in the street

and set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.