frankfurter free range

The first thing that I noticed upon arriving at Frankfurt Airport on our way back to Hong Kong was the polished granite floors. No! That’s not quite accurate. What I noticed was the proliferation of ‘impurities’ in the granite. The technical term for such a body is xenolith (Greek: ‘foreign stone’). Whenever molten magma is intruded into existing rock, whether it is sedimentary, igneous or metamorphic, bits of this so-called ‘country rock’ fall into the magma. Smaller pieces will dissolve completely, and their presence can be detected only by detailed geochemical analysis, but larger pieces do not dissolve and can still be seen once the magma has cooled and solidified, like the examples in these two photos:

The two adjacent blocks in the first photo appear to vary in mineralogical composition, but that isn’t unusual, even in rock from the same quarry. Incidentally, if you’re from Penrith, you can see some good examples of xenoliths in the Shap granite that has been used to add a decorative touch to a few buildings in the town centre (check out Tough Stuff for a detailed description of the geology).

With a seven-hour stopover in Frankfurt, I spent quite a lot of time simply wandering around to see whether there was anything else worth photographing. The next photo, of a kind of glassed-in atrium, is probably my favourite, with its reflected intersecting lines making an interesting abstract composition:

There wasn’t much to see of interest outside the terminal, and I took this photo merely to show that the weather was fine while we were cooped up indoors:

However, I did realize that I would see a sunset before we boarded our plane to Hong Kong. And before the sunset, the westering sun did create some interesting lighting effects inside the terminal:

And I did capture the sunset. First, just before the sun disappeared below the horizon:

…then the subsequent lighting effects:

Our departure gate wasn’t accessible during this period, because we had to be able to prove that we had recorded negative covid-19 PCR tests and that we had booked a hotel for our three-day quarantine once we’d arrived in Hong Kong. However, when we were finally allowed to approach the gate, I could see that the sunset show wasn’t over. So I took another photo:

I’ve no idea why there are horizontal strips on the windows here, but I do have a theory. A captive audience?

saddle up and go

Although Paula and I agree that the most enjoyable bike ride we’ve done this year was our ride up to Haweswater (Haw! Haw! Haw!), in terms of scenery, a ride that we did last week comes very close, even though we didn’t see any lakes.

We started by heading to Greystoke, a village about five miles west of Penrith. We didn’t follow the B5288, which we consider too dangerous for cyclists because of the speed at which some cars are driven. Instead, we cycled through Newton Reigny and Blencow, which adds a couple of miles to the ride but is far safer. Because we cycle through all three of these villages quite frequently, I didn’t take any photos, but we continued west of Greystoke along the B5288 because it’s preferable to the road that runs parallel to the main road to the north—the problem here is racehorses, which can be both difficult and dangerous to overtake on such a narrow road.

On the way to Motherby, a hamlet about two miles further down the road, I stopped to take this photo:

The significance of this photo may not be obvious, but it was our first sighting of a mountain that dominates the next few miles (see below).

And this is a view looking back down the road, with the Pennines on the distant horizon:

We stopped briefly in Motherby, where I took this photo looking back:

…and this photo showing the road ahead:

Immediately after leaving Motherby, I stopped to take this photo of the mountain:

Relatively few locals have an extensive knowledge of local toponyms, but everyone recognizes this, one of the few mountains in the Lake District with a name of Cumbric origin (Blencathra). Mind you, they are much more likely to refer to it by a name that reflects its distinctive and easily recognizable profile (Saddleback).

My objective was to follow the former main road to Keswick as far as the turn-off to the village of Mungrisdale. It has long since been superseded by the A66, to which it runs parallel, although I didn’t know how much of it still existed (it isn’t marked on my map). This photo of Saddleback was taken shortly after joining the old road:

The next photo shows a pile of logs by the side of the road a short distance ahead:

Shortly after we’d stopped to take some closer photos of the logs, two pick-up trucks pulled up, and when the driver of one got out of his vehicle, I asked him where the logs had come from.

“The wood at the top of the hill [on the right]” he answered.

“Are there any trees left?” I asked.

“Not many!” he replied.

It didn’t occur to me to ask what they would be used for, and I’m no expert on the subject, but there are several commercial plantations in the area, all of conifers. You can make your own guesses as to the ultimate use of the logs. Pine furniture or wood pulp? This photo provides some indication of just how many logs had been piled up here:

I stopped to take the next photo mainly because of the stand of pink flowers on the left. This is rose bay willow herb, which is a glorious and common sight on roadsides because it always grows in large stands like this, although in this case it was late summer, so the display had faded:

This is the final photo that I took of Saddleback:

As I mentioned above, I had no idea how much of the old road still existed, and on two occasions it diverted from its arrow-straight trajectory to join the A66. Fortunately, however, in each case there was a dedicated cycle track running alongside a road that no cyclist in their right mind would want to ride along. The second of these ended at the road to Mungrisdale, and we could get away from the noise of fast-moving traffic for the remainder of the ride.

I didn’t stop to take any photos on our way to Mungrisdale, although there were one or two locations that in retrospect would have been ideal. Instead, I took the next photo as we reached Mungrisdale:

And this is the reason we chose to stop here:

…while this is a view from the bench:

We continued through Mungrisdale, which is a small village, and I stopped to take this photo of the road ahead on the way to Mosedale, which is even smaller:

Notice that the hillside on the left comes right down to the road, although there are no hills on the road itself along this section. I took the next three photos from the same place just outside Mosedale, most of which is located at the start of a dead-end road that leads up this valley, which was carved by the headwaters of the River Caldew:

I have particular memories of this valley. As a student of geology at Manchester University, I chose it as the site for my final-year mapping project in 1966/67. There is an abandoned wolfram (tungsten) mine at the end of the road, the mineral being part of the ‘juices’ from the Skiddaw granite intrusion that underlies the upper reaches of the valley. There were once many lead, zinc and copper mines in these mountains, but all have long since closed.

Continuing the geological theme, this is a view of Carrock Fell, on the north side of the valley (fell derives from the Old Norse word for ‘mountain’ and remains the local word, both in proper names and in the generic term ‘the fells’):

Carrock Fell is unique in England as the only example here of a gabbro intrusion. You’ve probably heard of basalt, which is a common volcanic rock (e.g., the Giant’s Causeway in Northern Ireland); gabbro is chemically identical, but it cools deep underground, so the crystals are much coarser.

This is a stone bridge over the river, which may have carried the original road hereabouts:

I suspect that flooding may once have been quite common here, because the banks have been built up with stonework.

Beyond Mosedale, the road continues over open moorland. This is a view looking back after a short distance the way we’ve just come:

…and this is the road ahead, taken from the same point:

When we cycled this way last year, having reached Mosedale via Hutton Roof, we continued along the road that you see in the previous photo to Millhouse. However, on this occasion I spotted a not very obvious turn to the left, not signposted. I suspected that this road could be a bit hilly, but I asked Paula: shall we? Of course, she said ‘yes’! A short distance further on, this road comes to a ford across a beck (another Old Norse word, meaning ‘stream’) and immediately begins to climb alarmingly. I had absolutely no hesitation: straight down to the small chainwheel. Mercifully, the steep section didn’t last long, although the road did continue to climb. The furthest point on the road in this photo marks the top of the steep section:

I took this photo of the view to the east, with the Pennines in the distance, from the same point:

And this is the road ahead:

Notice the fell ponies under the tree on the right. The road continues through the obvious gap in the trees on the horizon before beginning the long descent into Hesket Newmarket.

We did have one small problem to resolve though when we set off again. One pony had escaped the tumbledown walls of its enclosure and was stood in the middle of the road facing away from us. We wouldn’t be able to get past it in order to continue unless I could, somehow, persuade it to move over.

I don’t remember how exactly I eventually managed to succeed in this endeavour, only that I was careful not to spook the animal in case it kicked out with its hind legs. But we did finally manage to pass it.

And so began the long descent into Hesket Newmarket. We visited this village earlier this summer for the first time as part of a ride that also included Caldbeck, yet another addition to our never previously visited list. This is a view of the centre of the village:

The village pub, the Old Crown, is on the left. And this is the view from the same spot, looking in the opposite direction:

We arrived in the village via the road on the right of the photo, and we would leave via the road on the left. There is a sign here indicating a steep hill (16%), but fortunately it is downhill from here. There is a second sign, partially obscured by foliage, indicating a ‘weak bridge’ ahead.

We stopped to take some photos of the bridge, which crosses the River Caldew:

We didn’t take any more photos during this ride, but I should probably have taken one of the T-junction a short distance beyond the bridge. There was a signpost, or, more accurately, there was a post but no sign. Paula suggested following the priority road, which would have meant turning left, but I thought that continuing straight on would take us in a more favourable direction.

As it turned out, however, following my choice brought us to a series of hills, which grew increasingly taxing, to the point that I had to drop to the small chainwheel. However, we did eventually reach the long, wide and straight section of road that leads to the B5299. In retrospect, we should have turned right at the first opportunity and followed a road that leads to Castle Sowerby church (not on the map) and Lamonby (not on the signpost).

Instead, we continued to the B5299 and followed that for about three miles before turning right for Skelton. Traffic on this road isn’t heavy, but it’s fast-moving, so when we do this ride again next year, as we surely will, we will take the option via Lamonby. The road from there to Skelton is entirely downhill. Having reached Skelton on this occasion, the remaining six miles into Penrith is also easy. Yet another grand day out!

You can follow the route we took on this occasion on this map:

You may notice that the left- and right-hand sides of this map are not precisely aligned. This is because the two halves are on different pages of the Ordnance Survey road atlas that I use to plan our bike rides.

sitting on the balcony

I realized recently that I’ve been taking photos regularly of the same view: what you can see looking southeast from our balcony. Of course, the photos are only superficially similar, and I took each one because there was something transient in the view that I wanted to capture. I thought that I would post these photos, in chronological order, to illustrate what I mean.

The first photo, taken on 26th October last year, was an attempt to capture the sunrise. Unfortunately, my phone camera isn’t very good at rendering colour:

However, I tried again six minutes later and got a much more satisfying result:

The long, narrow building is what in British army days was this base’s married quarters, although I’d never seen it occupied since we moved here in 2008. The high-rise blocks are part of the recently constructed Queen’s Hill Public Housing Estate, which has yet to be occupied. The mountain is Lung Shan (‘Dragon Mountain’).

I took the next photo, on 4th November, because some clown had decided to make a bonfire of grass, leaves and other organic matter. Not much land is under cultivation in that area, but I do see smoke rising from that location from time to time. Not a major contribution to global warming, but I’ve never seen evidence of composting, which to me is the obvious course of action in such circumstances, anywhere in Hong Kong:

I mentioned not having seen the former married quarters being occupied above, so this was the first time (2nd March):

The soldiers of the PLA, which now occupies this former British military base, do a lot of coordinated shouting, starting from reveille at 6 o’clock, but a few days before I took this photo, I’d become suspicious around 10 o’clock because I’d heard no shouting that day. Perhaps there had been a covid outbreak, and shouting had therefore been banned. Obviously, this is the kind of news that will never be officially confirmed, but the former married quarters do make a handy isolation unit for suspected cases.

Notice too the number of lights on in the right-hand tower block. We had heard rumours that this block had been earmarked as an isolation centre for suspected covid cases in the general population (Hong Kong has subsequently endured its worst outbreak of the disease since the start of the pandemic).

Its often foggy as winter gives way to spring in Hong Kong. This photo was taken early in the morning on 18th March:

…and this one was taken 11 minutes later:

I often see huge fields of grass flowers in the more remote areas of the New Territories in springtime as I cycle around, something that I don’t see back home in the UK because grass is used for grazing or is mown as hay. This is scarcely a ‘huge field’, but I took the photo because it shows grass flowers—this field used to be maintained by outside contractors but hasn’t been since the start of the pandemic (26th March, late afternoon):

I simply had to take this photo of a low-level streak of mist early in the morning of 10th April:

Two photos of the Moon rising over the housing estate in the late evening of 18th May, taken 13 minutes apart:

The next photo was taken on 25th May, shortly before sunset, which meant that the housing estate was quite sharply illuminated. However, it was the positioning of the clouds that prompted me to take this photo:

The mid-level mist in the next photo, taken on 27th May, was much more regularly defined when I first saw it, but it had begun to break up by the time I’d got my camera ready. However, this photo also shows flowers on two flame trees in the foreground. These trees are native to the savannas of East Africa and therefore have a wide spread. They usually flower in June but have been early this year. Unfortunately, heavy rain has since washed off all the flowers on the right-hand tree, and whether it has time to make a comeback—flowers normally cover the entire tree—is debatable:

You can’t miss the pylons on the slopes of Lung Shan, but I don’t recall ever seeing the actual power lines, which is why I took this photo in the afternoon of 29th May:

My final photo was taken on the same day, shortly before sunset, hence the slight redness of the clouds. Our balcony faces east, and, surprisingly, I often see more redness in the clouds from here than I would if I went up to the roof and looked west. This phenomenon is, I believe, caused by the absurd amount of air pollution over southern China, which diffracts the light when the Sun is low in the sky:

And the power lines are still visible!