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Aren't these just the cutest, most precious babies ever?
Well, I'm sure their mothers think so. These calves aren't very old, definitely not spring calves, who are almost fully grown now. These were born a few weeks ago.
I took this with a zoom. Mum would never let me get that close. Especially with my sidekick, Sparky, who still occasionally barks at the cows.
He seems to be concerned they may intend harm. Silly dog.
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EU headquarters in Brussels on a rainy day in October
This week will be pivotal in the future of the European Union and its currency, the euro. Meetings of EU countries in Brussels will determine if the euro will survive, and here in Britain, a vote in the Commons will determine if there will be a referendum on whether or not the UK will continue to grace the EU with its presence.
For united we stand
Divided we fall
And if our backs should ever be against the wall
We'll be together, together, you and I
--"United We Stand" by Brotherhood of Man, Europop band
I've got no dog in this fight, but I have had something of a front row seat these last few years, living on the periphery of the EU. Belgium, where the EU holds its plenary sessions (when it's not in Strasbourg) is almost next door. My concern is mainly economic: How much will the exchange rate affect my purchasing power when I visit the eurozone?
But I can't deny there are advantages to living in the EU: its laws affect us here in Britain, and those laws tend to be more humanitarian than many in Britain would like. Among other things, EU regulations affect the food I buy and the conditions in which animals are kept, two important considerations for me.
So when I was in Brussels last week, I was delighted to learn that the EU Parliament building was open to visitors, and coincidentally the new visitor center, the Parliamentarium, had just opened days before. Since my husband had a meeting at the Parliament, I went along and took the "tour" they offer.
If the European Union is half as chaotic as the visitor experience, I frankly hold out little hope. It took me a while to find the entrance—there was no signage of any kind. The tour was to begin at 10 a.m., and for the half hour beforehand, I and other visitors were told to sit in the waiting area, while tour groups went through security and began their guided tours.
The flags of 23 EU countries, with the Union Jack on the far right
Then we were sent through security and were abandoned to our own devices, so to speak. I found a kiosk offering audio devices, with 23 official EU languages available. So far so good, but then I spent 20 minutes—I kid you not—trying to figure out how to work the damn thing. (Just like some men have an aversion to asking for directions, I hate to ask for technical help.)
Finally, after listening to the introduction, I wandered over to the elevators, following the instructions on my device. That's when I noticed a young man who seemed to be in charge of us. He made sure I'd come to the part on my device that instructed me to head to the elevators—sort of like border control—and then I entered one of the lifts and proceeded as directed on my device. I duly photographed the sculpture in the center and then proceeded to the auditorium (the hemicycle) where the plenary sessions are held.
The hemicycle where the plenery session of the EU meets.
Again, I had to listen to the spiel on my device before I could move on, and then I discovered the tour was over. That was it.
I left confused. I'd expected to be able to see the new Parliamentarium, but there was no trace of it in the building I was in.
So I hefted my umbrella and headed back toward the city. Luckily, I happened to look to the right. There was the entrance to the Parlimentarium! It was hidden in a side building of the complex—were they ashamed of their €21 million Parliamentarium?
It was raining and windy and cold, so I eagerly closed my umbrella and entered the building, went through security again, and accepted the device they handed me—identical to the one at the previous location.
It didn't work any better, although I could at least adjust the volume, unlike on the first one. That's likely because it was brand new, as was everything in the Parliamentarium. Again, I fumbled around for a while before I realized that the device was the key to unlocking the displays, which showed information in your chosen language as you waved the device over the key symbol. But some of the displays didn't work, no matter how many times I waved the device over them.
I suspect French sabatoge.
But when it did work, it unlocked information presented on interactive tables like giant iPads, utilizing a touch screen filled with facts about the history of the EU. I read about the original impetus for a central union, shortly after WWII and the need for a common currency. With international borders so close together, anywhere from 100 kilometers to 1000, economies were intertwined unlike anywhere else on the globe. Europe's trading partners were primarily themselves, and they needed a way to trade without fluctuating exchange rates interfering.
One of the interactive tables at the Parliamentarium
Would the original rules have prevented a situation like the one facing the Eurozone now? Perhaps if Greece hadn't hidden its debt (the previous government is at fault there) the crisis would have been averted. I don't know, though I had a hint when I read the Convergence Criteria on one of the displays, which would have expressly forbidden a situation like that of Greece.
Another area of the Parliamentarium that didn't quite work.
After less than an hour, I happily returned my device and left the Parliamentarium. I had a few euros to spend, and I wanted to get to the city center—a 20 minute walk from the Parliament building—before my husband was out of his meeting.
The Royal Museum of Fine Art gift shop—one of my favorite gift shops in Brussels—was happy to take my euros, apparently heedless of the impending crisis. The exchange rate isn't very favorable—despite its troubles, the euro hasn't been devalued much against the dollar or the pound.
Will Britain leave the EU? Not likely. The euroskeptics, as they're called, aren't a majority in Parliament, though they represent a sizeable force in the Tory party. They won't likely get their referendum, either, but they'll be appeased by voting in favor of it on Wednesday.
The European Union will hold, and if German and France and the other major nations of the EU are smart, they'll reinforce the eurozone with the confidence and cash it needs to stay afloat.
But then, my earlier visit to Ieper, site of senseless WWI destruction and death, is a reminder that Europe doesn't always heed the call of wisdom.
Countdown to the end of the European Union? Or just the date and time?
For more information about visiting the EU Parliament chamber, go here. For more information about the Parliamentarium go here. Admission is free and the Parliamentarium is open most days of the year. They cater to physically impaired visitors but not technically challenged.
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Essex Farm Cemetery in Ieper, Belgium
Ieper, in Flanders, Belgium, is the heart of the Ypres Salient, the scene of a series of bloody battles in World War I. Since it's part of Flanders, the Flemish spelling is the one I'll use, though you may have seen it more often spelled as Ypres. It's pronounced EEper, or EEP, or even EEpray, though the British soldiers entrenched there referred to it as "Wipers".
Wipers was not a place you wanted to be during the Great War. Today we'd refer to it as a quagmire, a place where advancing was impossible and retreating even more so. Yet life in the trenches was unbearable, and for too many, death was the only way out.
Over 400,000 men died in the Ypres Salient (a salient is a piece of land that projects into enemy-held territory), some from the poisonous gas the Germans used for the first time during the Second Battle of Ypres. Although casualty figures are imprecise, all agree that huge numbers on all sides died during the muddy battles, making Flanders fields truly one of the bloodiest pieces of soil in history.
In 1915, Major John McCrae, a Canadian doctor, wrote the moving poem In Flanders Fields. We visited the field hospital where the poem was written, now a memorial and cemetery. Essex Farm Cemetery is a couple of miles north of Ieper, a lovely little spot where the remains of 1500 British soldiers—including many unidentified—are buried in orderly rows.
What's left of the concrete hospital barracks lie entrenched under a cow pasture, which overlooks the Ieper Canal. There were no poppies blooming in October, yet hundreds of red plastic poppies graced the graves of the fallen.
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
As we drove to Ieper, I noticed the surrounding homes and buildings all seemed different, somehow, from the usual European ancient stone and brick structures. Then I realized: They'd all been rebuilt since the Great War, which left the area a barren mud swamp.
The former cloth market town of Ieper was flattened during the four battles fought there, despite being occupied only one day by the German forces. The allied governments wanted to preserve it in its flattened state, but the residents naturally wanted to rebuild. The medieval buildings were recreated with the help of photographs, and today, there're few hints the bricks and stones weren't originally placed in the 17th century.
The Cloth Hall
In Flanders Fields Museum, located in the Cloth Hall, tells the story of the Great War in Flanders. With thousands of quotes from participants bringing the war to life, it's a particularly moving place. It also brings home the futility and stupidity of the war: generals who relied on outdated techniques based on calvary charges and politicians who insisted on advancement—even when advances through the Salient were death traps for thousands of soldiers. Life in the trenches, except for the occasional truces, was abominable.
"They came out of their trenches and walked across unarmed, with boxes of cigars and seasonable remarks. What were our men to do? Shoot? You could not shoot unarmed men." —Count Gleichen, Brigadier General of the 15th Brigade.
During the unsanctioned Christmas truce in 1914, soldiers on each side spontaneously stopped exchanging fire and exchanged gifts instead—rations, beer, Christmas puddings—and crossed the lines to shake hands. The soldiers had decided to make their own peace. They even played a peaceful game of football—presumably with no referee waving flags. But the holiday from battle was short, and many didn't believe it had ever happened, until letters home described the remarkable events. In later years, the leaders of the war threatened to court martial anyone who participated in such a truce, so threatening was it to the fighting spirit of the troops.
The Great War went on for four more years, and hundreds of thousands lost their lives despite the fact that one Christmas, the two sides discovered they had more in common than they had differences. (You can read more about this fascinating period in this Independent article from 2005.)
Ieper today
Ieper was rebuilt after the war with money from German reparations. The tall cathedral of St Martins was rebuilt in 1930 and stands guard over the carpark. The Cloth Hall looks almost as it would have in the 17th century. And the sound of modern construction has replaced the sounds of battle.
On the way out of the town center stands the Menin Gate, a memorial to the British and Commonwealth soldiers who died in the Salient but were never found. Fifty thousand names are engraved, row after row, on the white walls. The British descendents of those who died cross the Channel to visit the memorial, as evidenced by the ever-present poppies. Poppy wreaths line the steps and small crosses bearing the names of the missing stand discretely along the base of the walls.
Outside Ieper, there are other battlefields and cemeteries in the Salient that are open to visitors, but we had to make it to Brussels by evening, so we crossed the Salient on modern motorways, the landscape still eerily flat and featureless.
Somehow, Ieper has risen from the bones and blood of the hundreds of thousands who died in the muddy flats of the Salient. Today it's a pleasant Flemish town, with coffee shops and cafes where once there were bunkers. But as we left I couldn't help but remember those dead, those without names, those without graves, those without descendents to remember them now, almost a hundred years later.
War is hell. Even the Great ones.
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In a field overlooking the Ieper canal, a Charolais cow contentedly munches sweet grass.
Today the site of the former field hospital is a cemetery and memorial dedicated to the soldiers who died there. And, it turns out, there are two Charolais cows grazing on the hillock above the remains of the hospital bunkers.
As we drove up, this pretty cow came loping over to greet our car. I was as eager to see her as she was to see me—I simply can't get enough photos of gorgeous cows, and these white French cows are very distinctive. Her thick muscles rippled as she walked, yet she stepped ever so delicately amidst the high grass. Her gorgeous pink nose sniffed me as I held out my hand.
Isn't she the most beautiful cow?
She has no idea of the significance of her little pasture, situated above the forward field hospital.
In Flanders Fields, the cattle low...slightly edited version of McCrae's moving poem.
I'll have more about Ieper later. It's a very moving place, the scene of massive destruction and senseless loss of life.
I'm glad I stopped and spent some time with this sweet cow, and her more reticent friend. I needed a bracing dose of sweetness for what was to come.
Love me?
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Mobile phones may not cause cancer, but they do cause something far worse: distraction. Not from driving—I presume anyone reading this is smart enough not to talk on a phone while driving—but from the moment.
The other day I was queueing for entrance to Highclere Castle. A phone rang behind me. The woman answered, gave a few polite responses, and then told the person on the line that she couldn't talk right now, and hung up. Then she told her friend it was a marketer from a bank.
First of all, I would have hung up straight away if a marketer had rung my private phone, but then I'm American and not given to excessively polite exchanges. Actually, first of all, I'd never have answered my phone if I was in a public place, unless I was expecting a call from someone I was meeting there.
Maybe I'm a technophobic curmudgeon, but the idea of preferring to talk on a phone when in public, rather than doing whatever you went there to do, perplexes me.
I've always been fascinated by the rudeness ordinarily polite people exhibit when I'm having a conversation with them, over lunch or at an event, and they answer their mobile when it rings. Whoever is calling has their complete attention, while I sit and twiddle my thumbs.
I'm not talking about emergency calls—they do exist, but are rare. Remember, billions of students made it through 12 years of school without Mom or Dad being instantly available. I'm talking about ignoring the friend you're with to talk to a friend on the phone. Even worse, talking to a telemarketer on the phone.
That's just rude, people.
I do understand people needing to take work calls or who expect an important call from some other source, but there's always voicemail. And rarely do events require an immediate response—too many calls are not important at all, yet we've trained ourselves to believe every ringtone means we stop what we're doing—even if we're doing something very important—to attend to a call.
When I'm out, whether it's shopping, working, travelling, or touring an interesting place, I have no desire to chat to anyone on the phone. That's sort of the point—I'm already doing something more important. If I'm on a train, or waiting at some event, I might be bored (if I've forgotten to bring something to read), but I woudn't want the people next to me to hear my conversation with you—if you've ever been in a semi-quiet train car and heard someone talking on a phone, you know how irritating that is. I don't want to peek in your windows, nor do I want to listen in on your phone conversations, which invariably are louder than a conversation you have with a friend sitting nearby.
Now, if you ring me while I'm at home, or if I happen to call you, I'm all ears. I can talk for hours on a landline. In fact, I'm one of those people who always thinks of one more thing to say, when you're trying to hang up. (Another kind of rudeness altogether.)
I try not to give out my mobile number, because not only do I not want to talk to anyone on it, but I rarely turn it on. I've found important messages left on my voicemail from people who somehow have my number—days after a reply was needed. As for texting, I find it less intrusive, but an almost impossible chore on my 2004-era phone. (Also, my phone is set to not ring—a setting I can't figure out how to change. Did I mention I was a technophone?)
So if you're still worried about cancer and phones, you can continue, especially if that means you don't interrupt my in-person conversation with you to answer a non-important call from your bank.
And if you ask me why I don't turn on my phone, I'll just tell you I'm worried about cancer. It's easier than explaining why I loathe mobile phones.
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We knew we were on the right road to Downton Abbey when we saw this lorry on the M4.
When you're alone and life is making you lonely
You can always go - Downton
No, you cannot always go to Downton Abbey, as I found out one day in September when I checked the website for Highclere Castle and found that the day before the estate had closed for the summer. But reading further, I saw that it would be open in October—for four days.
We'd just finished viewing the first series of Downton Abbey, the Edwardian drama on ITV. I'd heard many people rave about it, and since I generally like period dramas, I downloaded the ITV series from iTunes and we devoured the first season. (With only minor complaints—I felt the first episode was too expository. Background information was constantly shared by the characters in too obvious a manner, usually prompted by Daisy the clueless scullery maid.)
But by the time the series ended seven episodes later, we were both hooked. I marked October 13 on my calendar and my husband took the day off, so we could finally visit Downton—err, Highclere Castle.
The tower, which houses the oak staircase where actors from Downton Abbey are often seen in the series.
Highclere is the ancestral home of the Earl of Carnarvon—yes, that Earl of Carnarvon. Along with entry to the house you can purchase a ticket for the Egyptian Exhibition, featuring some of the treasures discovered when the fifth earl opened King Tut's tomb. This was a must-see for us. Carnarvon was once a household name: I remember my first grader reading a book about the discovery of Tut's tomb, over and over and over, sparking a fascination with all things Egypt that eventually infected my younger daughter as well.
This made Downton Abbey—err, Highclere—even more of a fan destination.
I love visiting old houses and castles, many of which are used as locations for films. I've already seen all the locations for my favorite period film, Pride and Prejudice.
Arriving at Highclere Castle, before crowds bore down on the entrance.
And Thursday was a gorgeous day, almost as perfect as the neverending summer days of Downton Abbey. The only problem? Turns out every other Downton Abbey fan in the country decided to visit the same day. The queue to get a ticket was around 500 deep—we waited almost an hour to even get through the gate. Then, inside the house, we had to follow a tightly packed queue throughout the tour. One of the volunteers said that since the series had aired, visitors to Highclere had increased substantially, to over 1000 a day compared to the previous 200 or so.
Which meant they no longer offer guided tours, a shame since there was no information in any of the rooms other than that offered by the volunteers posted in several locations. I'd have been smart to purchase a guide book, written by the current countess, in advance. No photos were allowed inside, so I can't show you any of the treasures, including the desk of Napolean that one of the previous earls purchased.
We filed past the bedrooms, peeking in the red room where one of Mary's suitors met an unfortunate end. And we saw youngest daughter Sybil's cheerful room. All these rooms overlooked Siddown Hill, a gorgeous view to wake up to whether you're in Downton Abbey or Highclere Castle.
Siddown Hill
The present house was designed in 1832 by the architect Sir Charles Barry, who, along with Augustus Pugin, designed the Palace of Westminster, aka Parliament. The castle is strikingly similar to the Victorian Gothic Houses of Parliament, including the grand tower rising above the spires. The castle has been open to the public since 1988. According to one of the volunteers, the family no longer live in the castle, though they use it for special occasions. It's strictly a money-making business now, rented out for weddings and film locations.
The south side of the castle, with bedrooms facing Siddown Hill
The Egyptian Exhibition tells the story of the fascinating 5th earl, Lord Carnarvon, who financed Howard Carter's excavations in Luxor that eventually unearthed King Tut's long-hidden tomb. Known for racing his motorcars too fast down country lanes (and collecting some of the first-ever speeding tickets), the earl was also an accomplished photographer. After discovering the tomb, Lord Carnarvon died at age 56, killed, perhaps, by the Curse of the Pharaohs, or more likely, septicemia.
The castle overlooks the surrounding landscape.
After touring the house and exhibition we escaped the crowds and wandered around the grounds. The manicured lawns unfortunately were playing host to several huge marquee tents, erected for a charity event happening on Sunday. This intrusion spoiled many of my photos. And as we left, the long queue to get inside the house spoiled any attempt to imagine the occupants of Downton Abbey standing in the familiar gravel drive, receiving visitors in their shiny motorcars.
The Secret Garden
The estate is vast, with rolling parkland dotted with sheep and woods full of pheasants this time of year. I didn't see one of the white labradors, not the one who plays Pharoah (now Isis) in the series nor Lady Carnarvon's white lab Percy.
But we did see The Temple of Diana, the requisite folly (one of several on the estate) as we were driving out.
The Temple of Diana
More photos are available on Highclere's website, including many of the interiors (here's a showcase of the interior and exterior film locations).
By the time we left at 2 p.m., crowds queued at the entrance of the house.
The castle will again be open in December for several days, but be warned: the crowds will be overwhelming. Plan to arrive early, and if you're visiting from overseas, consider getting a Great British Heritage Pass and bypass the queue. An easy drive from London, Highclere is located near Newbury, about a half-hour from Reading off the A34.
Or just follow the Downton lorry.
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Sheep at Highclere, washed out a little by the exposure setting on my Nikon. (And these days Highclere is getting lots of exposure.)
On the way out of Downton Abbey yesterday we drove past acres and acres of his lordship's sheep, grazing on the green pastures of the vast estate.
Oh wait, did I say Downton Abbey? That's a fictional place, created by Julian Fellowes. I knew that. Actually I was at Highclere Castle, home (sort of) to the Earl of Carnarvon, not the Earl of Grantham. He's fictional. I knew that.
But these sheep are real. They live in a lovely spot of the earth, with rolling green pastures and ginormous trees creating shade to frolic in.
Lucky sheep. Well, for now.
Actually, we were the lucky ones, because it was a lovely day and we were in this lovely spot. And it was easy to forget the crowds back at the house, hoping to see Downton Abbey during the few days it's open in October.
Right. I mean Highclere Castle.
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If you thought the incident a few weeks ago, involving the detainment of a woman of Arab/Jewish descent after a flight to Detroit, was a one-off associated with increased fear on 911, apparently you (and I) were wrong. Seems there's been another Stupid Airline Incident:
A Muslim woman is suing Southwest Airlines for being kicked off her flight after a flight attendant reported hearing her say "it's a go" into her phone -- though according to the suit, she was just saying "I've got to go" as the plane was preparing to take off.
Read the rest. It really is as stupid as the first paragraph sounds. Even after the TSA concluded the woman posed no risk (she was speaking with a Verizon rep to activate her phone), she wasn't allowed to fly, since the crew were "uncomfortable" with her on the plane.
I cannot even begin to address this stupidity. I can almost understand a passenger being so ignorant that he or she feels uncomfortable flying with Muslims. Some people do live in caves where the only TV reception is via Fox News.
But a professional member of an airline crew? Would you want to get on a Southwest plane with these bozos? Not me.
From now on I'll make sure I'm not flying on Southwest Airlines, flown by crews of Very Stupid People. That would, after all, make me very "uncomfortable."
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Steve Jobs 1955 - 2011
He built "a computer for the rest of us." Steve Jobs was talking about people like me when he coined that slogan describing the Macintosh computer.
Steve Jobs' death has reminded me of just how much my life has been affected by the computers he created. All my adult life I've known and loved these simple computers, designed for those of us who don't want to waste our time figuring out how the damn things work. We just want to get on with what we're doing. And I've managed to do quite a few things with the Macs I've had, things I'd never had done otherwise.
I first used a Macintosh when my husband picked up a small Mac Plus for my sister-in-law in Honduras. For a few weeks I toyed with it, my memories of tedious computer science classes fading as I explored its small screen. This sweet little desktop computer had no stacks of cards to punch, no code to memorize, no insistent blinking characters taunting me from a dark expanse. It didn't have a hard drive, either, but this was early days yet.
A year later we'd bought our own Mac SE, and soon I was publishing a newsletter using PageMaker. I'd never taken a DTP class, never had formal training, yet I could make a great looking newsletter in a few hours. I got a lot of praise for that two-page, two-column, 11-pt Palatino newsletter, and was soon asked to be assistant editor of a magazine published for the wives of Air Force officers at a large military base.
That's when I realized just how clever my little Mac was. The publication's editor, who owned a quite advanced and expensive PC, struggled to even copy an article on to a disk. I remember staring at her PC screen, wondering what the heck a C drive was. The next year I took over the publication, and soon I was doing all the layout and editing with my little SE. The magazine had never looked so professional (by this time I'd discovered Garamond), yet I made it look easy—because it was.
A year later, some of us decided to raise money for the organization's charity efforts by holding an art auction. We didn't know what we were doing, so we made it up as we went along. As the artists brought their art into the building, I checked it in on my little SE, which I'd brought from home and set up on a table. That afternoon, I designed a catalog using a simple database application, and by that night had printed copies ready to hand out to our attendees.
I felt as if I'd performed a small miracle.
When I wasn't using the Mac for my work, my children were playing games on the little SE. I remember Daughter Number Two as a toddler, moving the mouse around, singing along with the music—long before iTunes and iPods made Apple the go-to music application.
Daughter Number Two plays on a Mac SE.
Throughout the years our Macs got bigger, faster, slimmer, and then smaller again, when the iPad joined our house last Christmas. Software technology has long surpassed my skills—I can barely make my way through the new Word—but I still use a Mac every single day.
I import photos into iPhoto. I watch movies imported from iTunes through Apple TV. I listen to my iPod at the gym, and now can play its music in my car. My iPad is the last thing I touch at night, the first thing I touch in the morning. But I'm old fashioned when it comes to computing: my iMac sits on my desk, its screen much larger and colorful than that old 9-inch black and white SE.
I have no doubt that if Steve Jobs had not invented that first Macintosh, my life would have been drastically different. I would never have taken to computing, not for work and certainly not for pleasure. I have a fear of gadgets—a strange interface intimidates me. But Apple products are different.
"Think different," Steve Jobs said. I am most fortunate that he did just that.
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I'm not sure, but I think this might possibly be why people are occupying Wall Street right now:
Also, I think it's why so many people were attracted to the Tea Party movement.
Discuss.
Via www.connectthedotsusa.com.
Additional reading: CEO Pay: Still Skyrocketing, Still Undeserved.
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