psukhe

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Following the great flood of June 2009, things this week had just started to get back to normal and on Saturday we'd opened the garage doors wide, hosed and swept the mess off the floor. Some disinfectant got rid of the pong and we were done. We left the doors open to try and speed up the drying process.

Di took the dogs out at about 15:00 and I settled to watch the Springboks play the visiting British and Irish Lions. Minutes later, I heard the door into the kitchen close and a screech from the kitchen; "the daft old bat has trodden on a cat while putting out pet food," I thought. Being me, I went through to the kitchen to remonstrate with her and lavish attention on the injured feline.

There I found myself face-á-face with a fully grown male baboon sitting on the table eating my breakfast bananas. The screech had come from one of his many children who were fighting over the contents of the pantry. There were probably ten baboons of various sizes in the room. Di was clearly still dog walking.

The sage advice in this situation is not to face down a large alpha male, but talk nicely to him; convince him to take his swag and leave. No doubt foolishly, testosterone and adrenaline got the better of me and I set about the bugger with the nearest thing to hand - (wait for it) a large bag of wild bird seed.

He seemed so shocked that he jetted a great pile of simian shite onto the floor and loped off, not before reaching a hand for the fruit bowl for more fruity comestibles to help him on his way. I slapped his hand away and he went back out into the garage, scattering the screeching members of his extended family left and right.

Door securely closed and I was torn; rugby or clean up simian faeces?

Rugby won and I perched halfway between kitchen and TV, listening in turns for no. 1 wife's return and the simian intruders, lest they should come back for another try - maybe this time they’d go for our famous muesli...

Di came back and insisted on cleaning-up, which fortunately wasn't such a huge mess as I had intruded before the buggers had finished the food and started peeing and pooing, then smearing it all over the kitchen walls and floors. Anyway, by then, it was almost half time and she told me to go finish watching rugby and help during the break.

I did and we soon had it done; there was a second half to watch after all.

We used to be great radio listeners. Time was that you could arrive chez nous and find us listening to some kind of broadcast. In Rooi Els, that would usually be 567 CapeTalk.

It was informative and if you turned it off in the morning dead time between 09:00 and midday, there was plenty of pacy content, interviews and only a few of the local plant life phoning in, trying to string coherent sentences together.

Then a couple of years ago, CapeTalk yanked the excellent Mike Wills from the morning slot and replaced him with a new, more demographically acceptable host. In moments, the show lost its snap as erms and ums replaced polished delivery and the ability to confront (where necessary) gave way to fawning and mispronunciation.

Collective sigh. We’ll just leave the radio off until midday then.

Not long afterwards, a similar putsch replaced the mid-afternoon host(ess) with screeching, giggling, camp and our listening day was reduced yet again.

Late afternoons were still worth a listen though. There was some objectivity to be had, a reasonable interviewing style and a decent perspective on the events of the day. Sometimes the region’s Premier answered questions on air, other times, some of her flunkies. City managers, union representatives, taxi bosses, we got them all and in the main, it was good radio.

Until the man goes on leave and yet another babbling, demographically acceptable umming and erring stand-in takes over.

Sigh.

For the last fortnight or so, that’s left us with just the midday to one slot. Daily, we get live, tough, actuality in the hands of a true professional. You can hear politicians squirming and the underachievers wriggling as they empale themselves with their answers and excuses for incompetence. It’s fascinating stuff.

Until that man goes on leave too. In his place a young, inexperienced would-be journalist who hasn’t yet understood how bored people get when you repeat the same sentence continuously for the entire hour. Someone for whom um and er make up a critical segment of her daily lexicon.

The radio is off. We’ll doubtless try tuning-in again when those damned inconvenient holidays are over, but the damage has been done. Like many other areas of everyday life, radio is being killed by poor management (and judgement), mediocrity posing as equal opportunity and a perceptible slump in both entertainment and intellectual delivery.

In its wake lie many fine presenters and radio jocks; axed to make way for a dumbing-down that seems to have no logical conclusion. I’ve often wondered why those that have been cut loose don’t band together, start an Internet-based radio station and stream their output to our computers.

That way, we might have something to listen to, enjoy and learn from and at the same time, avoid idiotic management, incomprehensible demographic decisions and plain incompetence.

Why the stream over the Internet?

Simple; that way you bypass the need for a transmission infrastructure, yet you can reach South Africa and the rest of the listening world end-to-end. You also won’t need an IDASA allocated frequency (not that there are any available anyway) and best of all, you don’t have to ask permission because there’s no need for a broadcasting license.

C’mon guys. There might not be a million potential listeners waiting on your every word, but that will come given time - and some sensible management.

Few people have kind words to speak about their cell phone service providers and I’m certainly not one of them. Mine, Vodacom, is now part of the larger Vodafone stable and completely, totally, absolutely, unremittingly useless.

Worse, if that were possible.

Dealing with them is like trying to deal with the government and we all know what a challenge that can be.

‘nuff said?

Like last time, it's on issuu.

Enjoy.

I did it.

I've always said that people who name companies after themselves lack imagination and here am I a dot com.

Oh well. You can take a look at what's beginning to happen here

To download, click the one that suits you and depending on which browser you use, the file will automatically download. Either it will arrive as an image inside your browser, or as a JPG file. From your browser, save the file with the same filename to the location where your desktop images are stored. If you received a file, just move it to the appropriate directory. Once done, change your preferences to select the calendar pic as your desktop image.

There are a lot of new pics on Flickr if you feel inclined (link also on left).

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The kitchen floor and pantry

Looking into the garage from the kitchen

It's Sunday and we’re drying out.

In recent weeks the South African Weather Bureau has received a lot of flak for the inaccuracy of its forecasts; almost to the point where people look to the sky rather than hope a weather prediction might be correct.

This weekend, they got it right. Rain was forecast and we got it. Lots of it.

Nine o’clock yesterday evening. I was watching the umpteenth re-run of a Top Gear episode. The BBC’s much vaunted Knowledge Channel exists only to show Top Gear, all the old episodes, nothing newer and more relevant than about 2006. I’ve seen Clarkson et al race to London from the south of France and from London to Oslo so many times that I don’t bother to put the sound up any more; I just speak the lines along with whichever presenter happens to be in shot at the time. And, I have to say that I’m less boring.

“Why not watch something else?” you ask. I think you can probably work that one out for yourself, dear reader.

Anyway, there I was and the thunder which had been threatening for a couple of hours out over the South Atlantic was now very close and our pets looked to us for succour. Fat Boy the cat monster was under the bed, his sister and our new acquisition TC were in the cupboard laying on top of their food, protecting it from the nasty weather. Scottie, Jennie was on the bed wobbling from tip to tail and panting. She doesn’t go in for dental hygiene and the pong of her awful doggie breath forced my attention from the TV just seconds before the signal failed. The only pet who was unconcerned was Mr Porridge Brain, but that wouldn’t surprise anyone who has met him.

Then I really noticed the rain. What had been a steady drizzle had become a downpour. Torrential. Like Jozi, but even worse.

I put the TV off - the storm had killed-off the signal and then on closer inspection, it looked like the lightning had got the better of the LNB (dish receiver) again. So, I settled down to read. The rain pounded on and at about 22:30, I got up to put a few late night logs on the stove, to discover myself almost ankle deep in water.

From past experience I knew immediately what had happened; the rain that had fallen onto Klein Hangklip (the mountain behind the house) had immediately become watershed, made its way off the mountain and down the road on which we live. Close to the top of our drive, there is a change of camber in the road, just enough to divert the flow away from its journey to the ocean, down the drive, under the doors and into the garage.

After the last time this happened, we had a storm drain built which has served us well for several years. This time, the rain was much harder and the water in the garage built-up, rushed under the door into the house and proceeded to flood most of the ground floor.

In itself, that’s bad enough, but it bought with it a considerable amount of fine sand which is now a slippery and very tenacious floor covering.

Outside, the detritus had built up and I’ve spent the morning sweeping, shovelling and unblocking the storm drain. I’ve shifted what must amount to several hundred kilos of wet sand away from the garage entrance and storm drain, up the driveway and back on to the road. Inside, Mrs P has been mopping, mopping and mopping the floors and the sand isn’t halfway gone yet.

We called a halt about an hour ago and I made a late breakfast; bacon, avocado and tomato on toast. We ate in a very desultory fashion and now an exhausted Mrs P has repaired to a deep, hot bath where she says she plans to stay for “...at least three days.”

I can hardly blame her.

Aprés le déluge. Several hundred kilos of wet sand and lots of water to get rid of

It’s done.

In case you haven’t been bombarded by me about SoFoBoMo in the last couple of weeks, let me explain.

Last year, a small group of photographers put together a simple, Web-based competition which they called the Solo Photographic Book Month (SoFoBoMo). SoFoBoMo required entrants to shoot and convert into book format not less than thirty six photographs in any four week period between the beginning of May and the middle of June. This sliding deadline eventuated in around 170 entries by the time the competition closed.

I downloaded and browsed through a number of the entries and decided that if there was going to be a SoFoBoMo 2009, I’d definitely put my name down.

Earlier this year, we had a student visitor from the UK staying with us and one of the things Mrs P organised for her to do was a guided walking tour of Langa, Cape Town’s oldest township. I went along out of curiosity as much as anything and it was that morning my SoFoBoMo plans began to coalesce. To date, there are 745 SoFoBoMo 2009 entrants, only three of which are in South Africa and just one in Cape Town ;-)

Work prohibited an early start on my project, but by late May, I had a couple of days clear and made arrangements with the guide to do a more specific walking tour, with a view to getting my SoFoBoMo underway and if at all possible, completed in one visit.

If you live in the Cape, you will know that winter gets going several weeks later than in Jozi; usually it’s late June and sometimes even early July before the rain and north west winds blows up. But not this year. It has rained and rained and rained, leaving two abandoned shoots in its wake.

The forecast finally improved late last week and I got hold of Bulelane the guide and set a time to meet on Monday morning. So unpredictable is the weather however, that on Saturday, I ventured out with camera in hand to try and find alternative subject matter, in case the rain forced me to abandon the Langa idea completely.

Partway between Gordons Bay and Strand, a previously unexplored side road beckoned. It led to a scruffy car park, on the very edge of False Bay. Next door, waiting to be accessed through the long removed barbed wire fence, stood an all-but abandoned pleasure resort; a photographer’s dream.

I spent several hours wandering Harmony Beach as it turned out to be called. It is supposed to be being renovated, but just about everything movable has been trashed or stolen and It’s hard to imagine it ever being repaired and re-opened.

Next door is Hendon Park, the undamaged, but equally depressing chalet resort and next to that, the wonderful Fun Park with its bone dry water slide, filmy pool water and Putt-Putt course.

There were a few people staying at Hendon Park; one chalet had two guys sitting on the stoep, playing a guitar and singing. Others were being used by much younger people and the sound of hip–hop at ear-bleeding volume mingled with braai, hookah and dagga smoke.

Judging by the remarks as I walked past, the residents were pretty much the worse for many litres of brandy and Coke. I wondered if the whole thing would develop into a tik fest as the sun went down and the pleasure seeking became even more serious. Being brave, I beat a hasty retreat and chose to avoid eye contact while doing so.

By late Saturday evening, my SoFoBoMo entry was complete. Weather permitting, what would I achieve in Langa I wondered?

At 09:00 Monday morning, I was at Guga S’Thebe, the community centre in Langa waiting for Bulelane, who appeared moments later.

We walked most of Langa, avoiding some of the informal shack housing, which I was told was a bit risky even for a Xhosa such as himself. Apart from that, Langa revealed pretty much everything I needed and by Monday evening, my other SoFoBoMo was done.

So, which one to choose?

Harmony Beach is full of dark brooding images and strangely devoid of a human face in any one of its 40-odd photographs.

Langa is (in the main) fun, bright, has people in it, taxis, lines full of colourful washing, bright red signs and even a pic of Jake the Jizz.

Choosing one was a no-brainer really, but I asked Ms P anyway and she confirmed my opinion. “Langa Minutnae” was posted on the SoFoBoMo site yesterday.

Then I noticed that it is possible to post more than one entry and Harmony Beach will get uploaded today - just as soon as our Internet Service Provider sorts out the technical problem that was due for completion at 17:00 yesterday.

Grrr.

If you want to see the books, they are downloadable from SoFoBoMo, can be paged through on Issuu and finally, the individual images will be on Flickr just as soon as I can get access.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

To download, click the one that suits you and depending on which browser you use, the file will automatically download. Either it will arrive as an image inside your browser, or as a JPG file. From your browser, save the file with the same filename to the location where your desktop images are stored. If you received a file, just move it to the appropriate directory. Once done, change your preferences to select the calendar pic as your desktop image.

There are a lot of new pics on Flickr if you feel inclined (link also on left).

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In case you don't know what I'm blathering about; Forrest Gump said that you should never cut your own hair and most of the time, I agree with him.

So, when Mrs P and I discussed making our own meusli, I didn’t give it a second thought. This isn’t rocket science, doesn’t require sharp objects or a safety net, is not likely to be detrimental to our health and will save a whack of money; why not? Why should Alpen get all our cash?

We Googled something that looked like a halfway reasonable recipe and headed for the shops:

Rolled oats? Check.

Wheatgerm? Check.

Raisins? Check.

Dried apricots? Check.

Almonds? Check.

Dessicated coconut? Check.

Honey? Check.

Hey! This is easy. Mrs P did the honeying and roasting. The cooling cereal looked wonderfully golden and most appetising, especially so after the dried fruit and other ingredients had been mixed in. The following morning we sat for our breakfast and fell on the product of our cleverness with great anticipation.

You know what it's like; full of enthusiasm, you take a bit more than you should. In my case, waaaaay more, add sliced banana and dive in.

I should have asked the Fire Brigade to be on standby with the Jaws of Life. They might have made an impression.

Two days later and I think I’ve finally managed to masticate the last traces of the first spoonful out of my mouth. In the intervening hours, I have developed muscular jaws that would look good on a rottweiler and we’ve both agreed that this was more of a punishment than a success. Our ever hungry pair of scotties couldn’t even eat the damned stuff.

I’ve phoned the local builder and asked if he wants the rest for backfill.

I may never eat meusli again.

It’s as predictable as death and the rent man; winter looks like it has debuted in the Cape, but much sooner than we’d all expected.

Summer gets under way down here around six to eight weeks later than on the highveldt; late October if we are fortunate. At that time, the wind starts and we have the southeaster howling without a break for weeks, usually until long after Xmas. That equates to an autumn which can extend into June and occasionally, July.

This summer started the usual way, with the wind blasting up to 170km/h on one occasion and tapering off only well into February. Late summer promised much with a couple of extraordinarily gorgeous weeks of unbroken sunshine, but failed miserably last weekend as a pair of North Westerly storms hurried in from the mid-Atlantic.

Stations in the Cape have reported up to 150mm (6'') of rain in recent days, with a wind that has tested everyone’s patience. As I write, the sun is trying very hard to make a brief pre-sunset appearance; I don’t fancy it’s chances much as the occasional beam strikes Pringle Bay, off in the distance. The clouds lower, the drizzle sheets down and I’m really glad we’ve had Mr Morso serviced already.

Sigh.

Meanwhile, our new DA government in the Cape settles into a cycle of ritual ANC central government baiting as the country’s new bunch of leaders spread their posteriors into pre-allocated seats on the gravy train. This period of punch and counter punch will achieve little, save getting everyone used to the next five years of political shinanegans in South Africa.

For the sensible and grown-up, this kind of childish jousting and point-scoring can be puzzling; shouldn’t our leaders be above this and working flat out to prove that they really were worthy of our votes? I must be getting old.

Living in a Biosphere, we get many unusual and unexpected visitors. Before you ask; the local baboon troupe is neither and always unwelcome.

The Cape Francolin is indigenous here and as long as there aren't too many workmen or builders around, flourishes well. The current group is about eight birds strong and quite sociable, especially as we put seed out for them most days.

With winter's arrival, they seem to need more food and arrive on our stoep around 07:00 and honk loudly until seed is provided. Frantic pecking ensues and they disappear until late afternoon when the process is repeated.

Cape Francolin

Our cats sit and watch the performance but have (wisely if you ask me) resisted the temptation.

Speaking of which, we've acquired a new cat. We promised we wouldn't; the little-missed Patches had recently wandered off into the sunset and we were determined to keep the pet headcount trending naturally downwards.

Where was I?

New cat.

Yup. Well, he’d been shuttled around many homes, not the least with our kids in their Bo Kaap flat. Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t settled and was definitely heading for the big SPCA in the sky, when a begging letter arrived from no. 1 daughter, beseeching us to give him a home.

So TC moved in. With him came an attitude and a nice little feeding station; crumbles and water in individual hoppers to provide food and drink on demand. Such a nice thing for a moggie to have. Unless like us, you have a cat like Fat Boy.

Fatty likes food and TC’s fully loaded feeding station was too much to resist. He shouldered (batted with his paw actually) TC aside and set to. He didn't lift his head until the food hopper was empty and his stomach full. He dragged it along the kitchen floor, out of the sliding door and into the sun and there he rolled over like a capsizing ship. He lolled until his severely overloaded digestive system had turned the vast quantity of food he'd ingested into noxious gases and other unmentionables. The sun was long gone before he moved.

So, the feeding station has gone to animal welfare to benefit some other nice kitty and TC is having to get used to being fed twice a day like our own Mr and Mrs Blobby. He is very unhappy about it, but unlikely to such reach a girth to challenge Mr Blob at the trough for some considerable time to come.

Otherwise, he seems to have settled and is keeping the small bird and rodent population well under control.

Feeding station fallout; Fat Boy lolls it off

Summer's last rays - Saturday afternoon in Pringle Bay looking towards Cape Point

Had to go into Cape Town yesterday; an almost brand new 1Tb drive full of photographs, music and work crashed and needed to be replaced. Fortunately, it was under guarantee and Seagate picked-up the tab. This is the second Seagate that has crashed on me in almost as many months, so I am watching this one closely.

Anyway, back-ups I have and most of my data is now restored - still plenty to sort out though.

While waiting for my computer we (Mrs P came along for a meeting and we took the opportunity to have lunch out) drove through much of the city. I grabbed the two pics below from the car while stopped at traffic lights, waiting for the amber to set the taxis free on their helter skelter race to the next stop, just a few feet farther along the road.

The first pic is the art deco facade of a building on the foreshore in the late afternoon sun. Lines and shadows are a pretty unbeatable combination methinks.

The second was shot in Woodstock, en route to the excellent Project 3 in Newlands to collect my Mac. On it's own the pic has little to recommend it. The nude mannequin looking out of the window adds something deeply bizarre.

On two counts, really.

The first; I've finally finished the Q1 photo booklet. I know you've been gagging for it and It's almost six weeks late, but it's finally done.

The second; I'm not going to clog your mailboxes up with a 3.5Mb download. I'm evaluating a new Web publishing service called Issuu. To see the booklet, go here. As you roll over the page, right and left arrows appear so that you can page back and forth.

At the top LH side is a button for full screen view and next to it, a pull down for different views. Of these, the presentation view seems best, but you choose.

If you can't live without your own copy, Issuu will let you download from the site.

Cool eh? I'd be glad to hear your feedback. Finally, please bear in mind that this is my first attempt to use Issuu, so there may be a few teething problems. If you do have hassles, please let me know.

Late again. Blame the bloody 'flu.

To download, click the one that suits you and depending on which browser you use, the file will automatically download. Either it will arrive as an image inside your browser, or as a JPG file. From your browser, save the file with the same filename to the location where your desktop images are stored. If you received a file, just move it to the appropriate directory. Once done, change your preferences to select the calendar pic as your desktop image.

While you're here, I've posted a couple of new items here this week; scroll down to take a look at those. There are also some sepia tinted pics (look under "peepshow" link on the left) and also on Flickr (link also on left).

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Our sojourn in London was the usual hectic rushing from place to place, stopping at homes of friends and family, pubs, restaurants, museums and everywhere that looked remotely like a photo opportunity.

Despite the early Spring temperatures, we enjoyed the sun when it made a appearance, although sitting outside and enjoying a pie and pint wasn't really on the agenda.

As usual, there are lots more pics on Flickr.

Eye catching green painted home in Westbourne Park


Tinted office windows reflect a wintry sky and set a curious background these for bare branches


For no reason I can explain, this door fascinates me. Maybe it's the colour, maybe my inability to see all of it


IKEA - an essential stop when in London; it's full of wonderful furniture and home decoration ideas. The company's colour scheme makes for pretty striking photographs too

Sunlight picks out one of the marbled walls in the Hagia Sophia

It was Istanbul actually and it was OK.

Chilly; which was unsurprising as the prevailing wind brought late winter in from the not-so-distant Asian land mass.

Busy; a no-brainer really as the city is home to a reported 15 million.

Some more of the Hagia Sophia's magnificence

Inexpensive; pleasantly so, considering it’s imminent annexation by Europe will soon erase any notion of low cost of living.

A great destination? Not sure. Once you have seen the sun rise over Asia and across the Bosphorus, wandered the Grand Bazaar and visited the two great mosques, there’s not that much else to hold your attention. Perhaps we’re spoiled, but if you’ve seen some of Eastern Europe’s other great cities like Berlin, Athens, Prague and Dubrovnik, Istanbul doesn’t seem to have that much to offer after all.

Inside the Blue Mosque

Yes, the dervishes whirled. Slowly and silently and flash photography wasn’t allowed. The kebaps were wonderfully good and the beer fine. Getting around easy. But, for a reason neither of us can put a finger on, it just didn’t reach the heights we’d been led to anticipate.

So, no. Glad we’ve been there. Enjoyed it, but Istanbul isn’t on the list of cities we’ll hurry back to.

Sunrise over the Bosphorus


Fez on sale and not a Tommy Cooper in sight

Men are often chided by partners and friends of the opposite persuasion for not being sufficiently in touch with their feminine side. I go along with that most of the time and try hard to not always see the blokey side of things.

Sometimes though, you need to be in touch with your inner male, Home Improvements' Tim Allen style. A bit of healthy breast beating rather than just stroking...

Some time, not long after my ninth birthday, my one and only cousin Neil took me train spotting and a connection was made that endures to this day, almost half a century later. Neil lost interest, but not me. Even now I can stand for hours at the end of a wet and windy platform, watching the ebb and flow. Immersed in who knows what.

Leaving the UK in 1974 didn’t weaken the bond, it just became dormant, ready to spring back to life whenever steel rails and (preferably) steam locomotion was even remotely in prospect. Fifty years on, I can't resist slowing down when driving over or near a railway line, looking either way, just in case.

South Africa’s retention of steam into the ‘90s didn’t really mean much to me. I’d been weaned on the greatest railway system in the world. The one that blazed the trails and delivered cost-effective mobility to an island people. The Great Western, the London, Midland and Scottish, the Great Eastern. What images just the names can conjure. Liveried lines that snaked from London to cities hundreds of miles away; down* trains to Glasgow, Manchester, Plymouth, Dover and Ipswich.

Up* trains to “town” to be taken for a day out, or a business trip.

See? Just a few words and I’m off. The Thousand Yard Stare didn’t have it’s genesis in Vietnam's battle-wearied soldiers; ask any dedicated train spotter. They know what it means.

As usual, I digress.

Knowing we were UK-bound - on an “up” plane? - I sent e-mails to several railway preservation centres, explaining my trip and limited time, asking if it might be possible to visit outside of the usual (weekend and holiday) opening times.

As only my own countrymen can do, a single one bothered to respond. He very helpfully pointed me to an upcoming festival at Barrow Hill in Derbyshire, home to England’s sole remaining working engine shed and roundhouse. Friday 3rd April was to be an open day for photographers only and feature not only a dazzling collection of preserved locomotion, but to star Tornado, the recently completed and first steam locomotive built in the UK since the early ‘50s…

On that basis, it would be rude not to.

It was damned chilly (6 deg C) in nearby Chesterfield overnight, but as the centre at Barrow Hill opened at 10:00, I was there and stayed until almost the last chuff some time after 21:00. I left with the best part of 1000 photographs in my camera, an enviable reek of coal smoke about me, grimy hands and clothes and a head full of noisy memories.

I met and chatted to many similarly afflicted middle-agers. Some toted thousands of pounds worth of camera kit. Some only a mik en druk.

We all agreed that the passing of steam was a civilisation-stopping event and that the noxious Dr Beeching ranked alongside Peter Sutcliffe (the Yorkshire Ripper) and Moors Murderer, Myra Hindley as one of the nation’s worst criminals.

Anorak for the day? I’d recommend it. Highly.

* Down was always away from the capital and predictably, up meant going to the big city.

A couple of final things; first, thanks to Berni Becker for the loan of his excellent 18mm-200mm zoom Nikkor. I used it extensively at Barrow Hill and the results speak for themsleves.

Second, thanks to Nikon for the stunning (and 30 year old) 50mm f1.4 lens that I used to shoot the night pics. I bought it on eBay for less than US$100. Here it is delivering big time, no flash, just my D2x, a great lens and a tripod.

The new header pic shows the connecting rods and part of the valve gear of the newly built Tornado.

There are more pics from Barrow Hill here

Built in 1911, the sole remaining 04 (63601) simmers on-shed in the late afternoon sun

A unique line-up, from L to R; Gresley's A4 "Union of South Africa", the Peppercorn-designed A2 class "Blue Peter", a second A4, named for it's designer, "Sir Nigel Gresley", the brand new A1 class "Tornado" and finally, former Liverpool Street branch line locomotive, N7 class 69621

A4 "Union of South Africa" gives us just a glimpse of it's power

Night descends

On shed; steel, smoke, steam and sometimes, movement

Night at Barrow Hill. Fires keep boilers warm and steam simmers, ready for tomorrow's exertions