Ferris Wheel Floriade, Canberra’s spring-flower festival, has taken on a carnival atmosphere in recent years.
It is spring in Australia; has been, officially, since the first of September – even though the mercury might disagree.
I’ve been asked, from time to time, what the weather is like “Down Under” – I guess by people who haven’t looked at a map or globe recently. After all, the great southern land reaches well into the Tropic of Capricorn and extends chillingly close to Antarctica. So climate zones vary greatly, with the vast, dry centre having seasonal extremes of heat and cold; the tropical north being hot and humid most of the year; and the coastal regions, where most people live, being somewhat more temperate. Most of the country, of course, is also subject to regular fires, droughts and floods.
Canberra, Australia’s capital, is in a temperate zone, and unlike Sydney, where I lived for many years, has four distinct seasons that more closely resemble those I remember from my youth. Canberra turns on the colours in both spring and autumn.
A Sea of Red Tulips
A Yellow Tulip
Purple Tulips
Every year for the last twenty-six, Canberra has celebrated spring with Floriade, billed as the largest floral festival in the Southern Hemisphere. I’ve been to Floriade in the past – the occasion I remember best was the year when classical music played from the flower beds and Chihuly glass installations graced the ponds.
That was many years ago, so we decided to make the trip last weekend and see what the festival had to offer. Originally, Floriade was essentially a spring flower garden display, with beds of exotic bulbs and annuals planted alongside Lake Burley Griffin in Commonwealth Park.
That sure has changed! It is now a full “lifestyle” event with workshops, demonstrations, entertainment, food, and shopping. For the last six years, there has even been a “NightFest”, turning the flower gardens into a ticketed after-dark lighting and performance space.
Night Lights The tulips and the ferris wheel are a bit surreal under the changing lights of NightFest.
White Tulip The flowerbeds are eerie at night.
A Face in the Green Like fireflies or fairies, laser lights danced amongst the trees.
Green Laser Lights
Call Home?
Drumassault and the Fireflies To the sound of drums, performers light their batons.
Playing with Fire One of the Fireflies swings her poi.
Juggling Fire
We returned the next morning to join the crowds admiring and photographing the more-than-one-million blooms in the various flower beds designed to pay tribute to Canberra’s centenary.
Australian National Botanic Gardens Beds
Purple Tulips and Pink Bellis
Stilt-Walking Flowers
Red Tulips
Giant Metal Flowers Amongst the rhododendrons, we came across suspended flowers: the source of the reflected laser light during NightFest.
Orange and Yellow The colours of money adorn the Royal Australian Mint flower beds.
Reflective Kangaroo The kangaroo from the Australian dollar coin rises up out of the Royal Australian Mint garden.
Yellow Poppies also featured.
Family Time Canberra families are out, enjoying the sun and taking part in the gnome painting ~
Garden Gnomes ~ because it is not a garden without a garden gnome!
Natural Beauty A young burmese postcard seller captured me with her simple beauty and natural smile.
“I love the Burman with the blind favouritism born of first impression. When I die I will be a Burman … and I will always walk about with a pretty almond-coloured girl who shall laugh and jest too, as a young maiden ought. She shall not pull a sari over her head when a man looks at her and glare suggestively from behind it, nor shall she tramp behind me when I walk: for these are the customs of India. She shall look all the world between the eyes, in honesty and good fellowship, and I will teach her not to defile her pretty mouth with chopped tobacco in a cabbage leaf, but to inhale good cigarettes of Egypt’s best brand.”
– Rudyard Kipling, 1890
Some things in Myanmar have changed little since Kipling’s time.
The Ayeyarwaddy (Irrawaddy or Ayeyarwady) River, the country’slargest and most important waterway, remains a major transport artery. Numerous wooden boats still ply their trade up and down the “Road to Mandalay” – although the paddle steamers of Kipling’s day have mostly been replaced by noisy diesel and gas motors.
Last September, with photographer Karl Grobl and local guide Mr MM, I travelled the 11 kilometres up the Ayeyarwaddy River from Mandalay to Mingun, a small town in Sagaing.
There was much that Kipling would have found familiar.
Ships in the Heat Even on the wide Irrawaddy River, the heat shimmers.
Boatman Getting our boat away from the shore takes human muscle.
Helmsman Our boat chugs 45 minutes up river.
Life on the River Fishing for dinner or collecting grasses for building still means getting pretty wet!
The Mingun Pahtodawgyi Soon, the Mingun Temple, a monumental stupa started by King Bodawpaya in 1790 and never finished, comes into view.
The Prow Fresh greenery on the bow of our boat protects us from malevolent or unhappy nats or spirits.
On the Mingun Shore Once we are “docked” on the west bank of the river, vendors in thanakha powder come to greet us.
Street Scene Streets in Mingun are quiet – travelled by foot or the odd motorcycle.
Bullock Taxi Alternately, you can hire a bullock cart and driver.
The most famous attraction in Mingun is the beautifulHsinbyume or Myatheindan Pagoda – built in 1816 and dedicated to the memory of Princess Hsinbyume (Lady of the White Elephant) who died in childbirth – to which I devoted a post to recently. As impressive as Hsinbyume Pagoda is, it is the people on the walk leading to and from it which are the real burmese treasures.
Old Bullock “Taxi” Driver
Cigar and Candle Seller
Selling Silks
Selling Souvenirs
White Elephants Souvenirs for sale include marionettes – some modelled on elephants in honour of Princess Hsinbyume.
Portrait of a Postcard Seller This beautiful young woman with her open smile could have been the subject of Kipling’s praises.
You can’t visit Mingun without a look at the Mingun Bell. Weighing in at 90 tons, and built between 1808 and 1810 by the same King Bodawpaya who started the giant stupa, it is one of the largest functioning bells in the world.
Entering the Temple
Zayat or Shelter The elegant building housing the bell sat under a dramatic sky.
A Smile in the Sky A circumzenithal (or Bravais’) arc is formed by the refraction of sunlight through ice crystals high up in cirrus clouds. I’ve only ever seen one other.
The Mingun Bell
Monk Collecting for Local Temples
Back to the Boats
“This is Burma and it is unlike any land you know about.”
– Rudyard Kipling, Letters from the East (1898)
It is a beautiful place, with beautiful people… I hope it stays that way!
Paro Taktsang Perched about 900 metres (or 3,000 ft) above the Paro Valley, the Tiger’s Nest is a sacred Himalayan Buddhist temple complex.
A friend of mine is currently bicycling around Bhutan.
Bhutan! That magical, mysterious, land-locked country on the southern slopes of the eastern Himalayas where happiness is valued and elevations range from 200 m (660 ft) to more than 7,000 m (23,000 ft). Cycling! What a wonderful, life-embracing, inspirational woman she is.
In spite of watching her progress with total awe and some envy, I haven’t been moved to ride my own bicycle for more than a toddle around the block. I was motivated, however, to revisit my Bhutanese photo-set from this time four years ago.
September is festival season in Bhutan: a wonderful period of colourful costumes, dancing and celebration – and that’s what we were there to photograph. (Two of the banner photos ([1], [2]) on this website are from one of Bhutanese festivals I attended while there – more about that some other time.) Our first complete day on the ground, however, was spent hiking up to The Tiger’s Nest – that sacred collection of monastery and temple buildings perched some 3,120 metres (10,240 ft) above sea level.
Our itinerary said the climb would take about two hours, and we’d be back in Paro for lunch. This seems, in retrospect, rather optimistic. Every travel site I’ve looked at suggests allowing 2-4 hours for the uphill portion, and doing it after you have acclimatised to the altitude.
I suppose we could (possibly?) have walked it faster than we did, but who would want to? It is a truly beautiful hike – even if rather more strenuous than the guide book suggested. We started trudging up, up, and more up, just before eight o’clock. The dirt path sets off gently enough through tall blue pine and it wasn’t long before we spotted our first stream tumbling downhill to meet us. Across the stream, gaily painted white-washed buildings (chorten) house water-driven prayer wheels. Large stones nearby are painted with prayers and images of Guru Rinpoche (Padmasambhava, “The Lotus Born”).
Chorten Prayer wheels, driven by water-wheels in the running stream, sit inside white chorten or stupas.
Spinning, Spinning Prayer wheels spin inside their chorten – their speed determined by the stream waters.
Distant Monastery Clouds shroud the mountaintops above the cliff, where the monastery is barely visible.
Photographers in a Field We have climbed very little so far; it is still a long way up to the temple.
From a field off the trail, we were able to look up, way up, to where the Tiger’s Nest perches impossibly on a neighbouring mountain peak, 900 meters above the Paro Valley below. Wow! I got vertigo just looking at it.
Bronze Bell Religious items, jewellery and some souvenirs are for sale along the route.
Bhutanese Beauty
Streams and Trails
Selling Jewellery An old Bhutanese woman sits with her jewellery and trinkets.
Flags and Flowers Prayer flags blow in the breeze and flowers line our rocky, dusty path.
Cairns Memorials for the departed punctuate the trail.
As we continued the walk up hill, through birdlife and trees draped in Spanish Moss and prayer flags, we came to a sign: “Walk to Guru’s glory! … For here in this Kingdom rules an unparalleled benevolent King.” This is the realm of Guru Rinpoche who, in the form of Doriji Drakpo, one of his eight manifestations, flew to the top of this mountain on a flaming tigress, giving rise to the monastery name: “Taktshang” or “Tiger’s Nest”.
Up and up we tramped: past small stone cairns in memory of the dead; past trinket sellers with an abundance of yak bone and mountain-coral jewellery, and religious objects in silver and bronze; past wild flowers and prayer wheels; until we finally reached the half-way point – the cafeteria rest stop (2940) – by ten o’clock. I asked what time we were supposed to reach the top, and was told: “Fifteen minutes ago!” Hmm.
Already, one of our group of nine had resorted to riding one of the sturdy horses that service the lower half of the track. Now, it is true that none of us were particularly young and most of us had been living at sea level in Bangkok, and therefore were not used to the altitude, but seriously – two hours all the way up???
Prayer Wheel Our guide does the requisite three laps of the prayer wheel.
Wind Horse (Lung Ta) Flags Prayer flags are strung everywhere.
Trinkets in the Sun
Phallic Symbols for Sale Phallic symbols in Bhutan are vested with the power to ward off evil spirits.
Taktsang Cafeteria The cafeteria serves coffee and meals, and affords a great view of Tiger’s Nest.
Prayer Cloth According to legend, the Shakyamuni Buddha’s prayers were written on battle flags.
Flags to the Wheelhouse Horizontal lung ta and vertical darchor flags set off the golden pagoda.
Wind Horse Flags Lung ta flags spread prayers on the wind with the speed of a horse, apparently.
View to the Tiger’s Nest As the trail winds upward, there are regular glimpses of the temple.
Spanish Moss The pine forest is draped with lacy moss.
Meditation House The deep, rumbling sounds of of a monk chanting came from this little house as we passed.
After drinking cups of tea or coffee and stripping off excess clothing, those of us who continued to the top took plenty of pictures, pausing regularly as we wended our way up, up, and more up. This was not only as an excuse to stop and breathe – it really was one of the nicest trails I have ever trekked.
It is true what they say: at the lookout, you feel you as if you could reach out and touch the monastery across the ravine. The bad news is that to actually get to it, you need to climb down and up again on the other side. It probably isn’t that far, but it is steep and I wasn’t the only one gasping for air!
The Tiger’s Lair It looks so close you could reach out and touch it!
Waterfall The path from the viewpoint to the temple drops down over a 60 meter fall.
Look Up… Way Up… The entry to the temple is decorated in traditional Bhutanese manner.
Monks at Tiger’s Nest
Stone Stairs
Looking back at Taktsang
Prayers on the Wind
Yellow Wildflowers
Another Beauty
Fallen Prayer Flag
After visiting various altar rooms in the monastery (without our shoes, hats or cameras, as per requirements), we set off back down the hill to collect our missing group members at the coffee house.
One of the hallmarks of the Bhutanese has to be their flexibility; when it became clear we were going to be nowhere near Paro by lunch time, our guide arranged for our lunch to come to us! Once we had finally made our way back down the hill, our food was waiting, and mid-afternoon, seated on cushions in a field, we finally ate our well-deserved meal.
There is a real risk when going back to old photos: they were taken with an old camera and processed with an old version of Lightroom, so everything had to be re-edited. Then, looking at the framing or aperture or lack of clarity, there were all those “What was I thinking??” moments…
But, I loved Bhutan when I was there, and I enjoyed revisiting some of my photos from this happiest of Himalayan Kingdoms.
[…] first full day in the country was spent hiking to Tiger’s Nest, high over the Paro Valley. Then it was time to hop in a minibus, and cross some of the rugged […]ReplyCancel
A Shot of Jack Sculpture in the gardens, Jack Daniels Distillery, Lynchburg, Tennessee
“… and you can have a shot of Jack Daniel’s,” our guide told us as we set off on our tour around the Jack Daniels Distillery in Lynchburg, Tennessee.
It was a joke, of course – a pun on the word “shot”: a jigger of alcohol or a picture.
No free tastings were available, as Lynchburg is still in a dry county – a holdover from the state-wide prohibition laws passed in 1910.
Even without a “shot” of the world-famous sour mash Tennessee whiskey, the guided walk around the premises, established as a distillery on this site in 1875, is an interesting and entertaining experience.
The House that Jack Built OK – so it is really the Visitor Center, completed in 1999, and filled with memorabilia.
Gentleman Jack Center stage inside the Visitor Center is a statue of the man himself.
Small in stature but with a story larger than life, Jack Daniel himself is mythologised as a symbol of independence and pride in craftsmanship.
Born in a September, sometime between 1846 and 1850, Jasper Newton “Jack” Daniel was the one of ten or thirteen children fathered by Calaway Daniel with Lucinda Cook Daniel before she died in 1847. Calaway remarried and had several more children before he, too, died.
Ingredients Corn, rye and wheat mash are mixed with spring water and filtered through sugar-maple charcoal.
Checkers Making good whiskey takes time, so the story goes…
Guitars, Banjoes and Fiddles … and that time is spent fiddling, whittling, playing checkers, or just sitting.
Jack was independent from a young age, and stories abound about how he started distilling. Accepted wisdom is that at age seven he apprenticed himself to Dan Call, a local preacher and storekeeper in Lincoln County, who also made and sold whiskey. When Jack was 13, Call was forced by his wife and congregation to choose between ministry and distilling; he chose the former, selling Jack the still and the rights to the whisky business.
Some time later, as the business grew, Jack found and established the current location in Moore County, with it’s limestone spring water and abundant maple trees: perfect for the charcoal-filterering process Call had developed. The Jack Daniel’s Distillery is the oldest registered distillery in America.
Whiskey Jugs Jack was the first to stamp his jugs with a brand name.
The earliest Tennessee whisky was sold in earthenware jugs, painted with “xxx”. Jack, however, was a clever marketer, keenly aware of branding. He was the first to stencil the distillery name onto the jugs, in effect promising a consistent standard and quality.
The move to glass bottles came soon and numerous bottle designs from over the years are on display in the visitor centre. In 1895, Jack was impressed with a prototype square bottle, quickly realizing that it was both distinctive and practical. It was also symbolic of his desired image as an honest and “square” dealer.
Bottles and Medals The Distillery is rightfully proud of its awards and medals.
No one knows for sure what the now-famous “No. 7” stands for. The tale I heard was that it was the number on the only cask rescued from a river-transport accident; the more likely, but less engaging story is that it was the original district tax-assessment number for the distillery. Either way, like so much else about Jack Daniel, it is now part of the myth, and the number seven recurs in the story of the product and its sponsorships.
Jack always said his whisky was first rate. In 1904, he entered it in the St. Louis World’s Fair and won the Gold Medal for the Best Whiskey in the World against more established European products. After winning a magic seventh gold medal in 1981, this time from the Institut Pour Les Selections De La Qualite, Amsterdam, the distillery stopped entering competitions: “because it’s a number we happen to like.”
Always Dapper Jack was never seen without his trademark knee length black frock coat and a broad-brimmed hat.
Jack branded himself as carefully as his product. Because he only grew to five foot one, he was often mistaken for a youngster. To counter this, he grew the goatee and drooping moustache that we see in all the pictures and sculptures. Carrying his silver-tipped walking stick, he dressed and acted the part of the southern gentleman.
But, he clearly loved his trade, and his passion for fine sipping whiskey has been passed on to those who work at the distillery today.
The Rickyard “Ricks” of maple wait to be turned into charcoal.
Sugar Maple Charcoal
A Face in the Crowd Non-tasting tours are open to all ages.
Old Fire Truck Just in case!
Our Guide A bit of story, a bit of truth, a bit of legend…
… a bit of Heritage.
That Safe! According to the story, Jack kicked this safe when he couldn’t remember the combination.
Music is Part of the Legend “Jack” has always been a part of the music…
Sugar Maple The maple is used for charcoal. The sugary smoke that turns the tree trunks black is a sure sign that distilling is happening near by!
Lynchburg There is a barrel in the centre of the square.
Lynchburg Town Hall It’s a quiet, clean town – totally supported by the distillery.
Glasses Lynchburg stores are full of souvenirs and “Jack” memorabilia.
Gas Station It’s as if nothing changes in Lynchburg, home of Jack Daniels.
The moral of Jack’s story is: Never be the first person at work!
According to lore, when he beat his accountant in to work one morning, he couldn’t get the safe open because he had forgotten the code. He kicked the safe in frustration, broke his toe, and gangrene set in, eventually killing him in 1911.
The more mundane story is that he had diabetes… Contributed to by his alcohol consumption? The price of his pursuit of taste-testing excellence? Oh dear!
These days, of course, as is the case with the Irish Guinness, faceless corporate giants have taken over. But, the Jack Daniels employees assured us that they have been left to do things in the timeless, old-fashioned way – on the surface, at least. Just last month, it was announced that parent company Brown-Forman Corp. was investing $100 million to expand its distillery operations to meet increasing demand. Who knows what changes this will bring.
Although Lynchburg is a dry county, we were able to buy some commemorative Jack Daniel’s bottles after our tour…
Just our luck, they contained some fine sipping whiskey.
About an hour into our trip south across the English Chanel from the Bailiwick of Jersey to Brittany, France, everything outside the ferry windows disappeared. It didn’t seem an auspicious start to our day trip to Saint-Malo, the mediaeval walled city of explorers, privateers, and pirates.
But, just like magic, dolphins appeared – leaping and diving along-side the boat – and we exited the fog bank. There it was: a fairy-tale city, with the sun glinting off the golden beaches and the cathedral steeple rising high above the ancient walls.
Saint-Malo Once we are out of the fog we can see through the wet windows to the medieval city in the sun.
Saint Malo is an easy trip from Saint Helier in the south of Jersey where my daughter has been working on contract. So, yesterday, to celebrate her last day off before returning to England, she and I took the morning trip across – knowing the afternoon ferry back would have us “home” in time for dinner.
While that leaves very little time on the ground, the old port city on its island, fortified during the Middle Ages, is very compact. We were easily able to walk around the walls to take in the magnificent views – and still have time for stops for coffees, savoury galettes, sweet crêpes, wine, and to browse the countless shops that line the narrow cobbled streets.
Rue de Dinan Old cobbles lead into the walled city…
Window-Pots … while colourful flowers hang everywhere overhead.
Cathédrale Saint-Vincent-de-Saragosse de Saint-Malo This gothic cathedral dates to the 13th Century – the original monastery on the site goes back to 1108.
Commemorative Plaque An integral part of the history books I grew up on, Jacques Cartier (December 31, 1491 – September 1, 1557) set sail from his native Saint-Malo in 1534 and again in 1535 and 1541, exploring what is now Newfoundland and into the St. Lawrence River, leaving a small colony and claiming the lands for the French.
Gothic Ceiling The inside of the old cathedral is quite beautiful, with vaulted roofs, lovely stained glass …
Altar … and some stunning, modern-looking additions.
Candles This is still a strongly Roman Catholic community, and many candles are burned for loved ones.
Place Jean de Chatillon Back outside, tourists and students on their lunch break enjoy the sun …
Place Jean de Chatillon … while I admire the architecture.
War Memorial
La Houxaie Mentioned in writings from the 15th Century onwards, La Houxaie is the oldest surviving house in Saint-Malo.
The Next Generation The next street across, a group of young people with their iPods and cigarettes chat in a doorway.
Fort National On one of the tidal islands, Fort National sits a few hundred metres away from the wall.
Fort Royal Built in 1689 under the direction of military architect Vauban, it was originally called Fort Royal.
Seagull When the tides are out, the beach is popular with sun bakers and seagulls.
Low Tide The bay of Saint Malo has the highest tidal range in Europe; when it is out, the “islands” join up.
Telescope The views from the wall are beautiful …
Roofs and Balconies … in both directions!
The Wall
Battlements
Robert Surcouf Robert Surcouf (1773 – 1827), privateer and slave trader, was another of Saint-Malo’s famous sons.
Buildings from the Wall
Old Cannon
Ermine Back at street level, we notice the ermine wearing a scarf, which is part of the city’s Coat of Arms and flag.
The Château of Saint-Malo
Madonna in the Wall
Calvados and Vin Chaud Time for some last minute shopping?
It is a charming town, and I could have spent a lot more time there.
I had wanted to visit a few of the sites outside the walled city –
- Performing the Ganga Aarti from Dasaswamedh Ghat, Varanasi
- Buddha Head from Shwedagon Pagoda, Myanmar
- Harry Clarke Window from Dingle, Ireland
- Novice Monk Shwe Yan Pyay Monastery, Myanmar
Packets of 10 for $AU50.
Or - pick any photo from my Flickr or Wanders blog photos.
– Rudyard Kipling, Letters from the East (1898)
But, I loved Bhutan when I was there, and I enjoyed revisiting some of my photos from this happiest of Himalayan Kingdoms..jpg)
It is a charming town, and I could have spent a lot more time there.
Beautifully presented