The Moussaka Affair

O Caso Moussaka.

Tuesday 24th Sept, 2024 @ 18:22

Tradução para português

A ‘different’ day.
It didn’t start that different. A ‘tidy’ up this morning, then an uneventful grocery shop.
As ‘light relief’ I had planned to cook a ‘moussaka’ – a meal I used to indulge in back on Tyneside at a lovely Greek restaurant in Newcastle.
Now my ‘chili con carne’ is not quite ‘world famous’, but still loved and enjoyed by friends. Based on my first seeing Keith Floyd rustle up this lovely dish many years ago, I have made it so many times it has become part of me.
So, I have thought often, what about a ‘few tweaks’ and making a Mousakka? A walk in the Park?

Armed with a couple of large Aubergines and 1Kg of minced beef I set to work, not to mention the accompaniment of Music and a box of ‘Silgueira’ – a rather tasty vinho tinto from Porto.

When the final dish was in the oven, I was almost exhausted. Never, ever, have I had to put so much effort into making, what, at first sight is simply a variant of ‘Lasagne Bolognesa’.

To be honest, I love to cook. Music, wine, creation – it has everything.
On this occasion it had too much of one thing, and a lack of something else – but what these two ‘components’ are, I really do not know..

I vaguely remember taking it out of the oven, switching off the oven, and pouring yet another glass of wine. Sat down in the kitchen, at the table, I was singing along to Barbara Dixon and Johnny Mathis.

Then I woke up. My bum was cramped, my ‘lunch’ was in front of me in a large dish, ready to be ‘served’ but now cooled to nearly cold, and an unfinished glass of wine in front of me.

Falling asleep on an upright chair, is something that has happened before on excursions into sublime oblivion. What surprises me, is why I never fall off.

Two, quite urgent ‘messages’ were apparent – one, I was cold, the other, damned hungry.
I closed the door, then cut, and removed a chunk of my masterpiece onto a plate.

Well, at least is was palatable. The beef, in my well-seasononed sauce was tasty. The rest? Least said, soonest mended.

The ‘few tweaks’ had become something of a marathon, only driven on by my enthusiasm, lovely music and ‘top-ups’ with excellent wine.

It was a bloody disaster..

Oh yes, I’ll eat it – bit by bit. But the attempt to recapture the lovely dish I’d had many years ago had failed – miserably.

Update Wednesday, 25/09/2024 @13:35
I have three favourite ‘R’s – Retribution, Redemption & Respite.

I’m keeping an open mind about this ‘dish’, and I’m only referring to the one I’ve already cooked.
Maybe after being portioned and frozen for a while, I might find them a little more appetizing..
I won’t repeat attempting the dish again, too much time and effort, for apparently scant reward.
Also I’d made too much ‘sauce’ for the two Aubergines, so a considerable quantity was left until this morning. Being for the mousakka, I’d reduced the water content with slow simmering, so the sauce was quite ‘thick’.
I decided to convert the substantial remainder into a ‘chili’. But hang on, that meant adding chopped-up malaguetas (my usual choice), or chili powder, either of which would need the remainder to be re-cooked again. I opted instead for a hot ‘piri-piri’ sauce from Makro’s ‘Professional’ range.
I use the latter on BBQ chicken etc., plus the ‘triturado’ for extra ‘oomph’.
So after adding a generous portion of red beans (fejao encarnado) I added some water, and some of the hot piri-piri sauce – no science, just my knowledge and experience with the BBQs.
So on a low heat, and a frequent stir, plus gob-fulls of my favourite ‘Dao’ red it was deemed ready for a taste-test.
A small spoonful was shoveled into my mouth. The minced beef was tender and tasty, and the strong taste delicious. That my nasal sense-organs signaled panic, there is no doubt – I sneezed powerfully.
After blowing my nose, then gulping more wine, the delicious taste lingered. ‘Wow!’ I thought, ‘that was bloody lovely!’. A little later another taste, this time with one of the beans included.
No sneeze, no eyes watering, just a sense of pleasure.
Essential – a ‘chili’ should always be accompanied by a ‘calming’ component. Pasta, Rice – even mashed boiled potato.
A little later, I scoffed a big helping, with Fusili pasta – lovely!

And the tree ‘R’s?
Retribution – For my ignorance.
Redemption – A by-product from the remainder that is truly lovely.
Respite – A full belly, and realization that all was not, indeed lost, plus a good laugh at myself..

The remainder of both dishes will be frozen. The labels on my ‘chilified’ version will be labelled ‘Beef and Red Beans in a Hot Piri-PIri Sauce.’

‘Kiss me Piri-Piri, kiss me,
Thrill me Piri-Piri thrill me.
Don’t care even if I blow my top,
But Piri Piri – ‘Uh-Huh?’
Don’t stop!

[With apologies to Shirley Bassey, Michael Julien, and Albon Timothy]
See her on Youtube: Shirley Bassey – Kiss Me, Honey, Honey.

Portuguesa

Um dia ‘diferente’.
Não começou assim tão diferente. Uma ‘arrumação’ esta manhã, depois uma mercearia sem incidentes.
Como “ligeiro alívio”, planeei preparar uma “moussaka” – uma refeição que costumava saborear em Tyneside, num adorável restaurante grego em Newcastle.
Ora o meu ‘chili con carne’ não é propriamente ‘mundialmente famoso’, mas não deixa de ser amado e apreciado pelos amigos. Com base na primeira vez que vi Keith Floyd preparar este adorável prato há muitos anos, já o fiz tantas vezes que se tornou parte de mim.
Assim, tenho pensado muitas vezes, que tal uns “alguns ajustes” e fazer um Mousakka? Um passeio no parque?

Munido de um par de Beringelas grandes e 1Kg de carne picada comecei a trabalhar, já para não falar do acompanhamento de Música e de uma caixa de ‘Silgueira’ – um saboroso vinho tinto do Porto.

Quando o prato final chegou ao forno, eu estava quase exausto. Nunca, nunca, tive de me esforçar tanto para fazer aquilo que, à primeira vista, é simplesmente uma variante da ‘Lasanha à Bolonhesa’.

Para ser sincero, adoro cozinhar. Música, vinho, criação – há de tudo.
Nesta ocasião, havia muito de uma coisa e faltava outra – mas o que são estes dois “componentes”, não sei bem.

Lembro-me vagamente de o tirar do forno, desligá-lo e servir mais um copo de vinho. Sentei-me na cozinha, à mesa, a cantar ao som de Barbara Dixon e Johnny Mathis.

Então acordei. O meu rabo estava com cãibras, o meu “almoço” estava à minha frente num prato grande, pronto para ser “servido”, mas agora arrefecido quase frio, e um copo de vinho inacabado à minha frente.

Adormecer numa cadeira vertical é algo que já aconteceu anteriormente em excursões ao esquecimento sublime. O que me surpreende é porque nunca caio.

Duas ‘mensagens’ bastante urgentes eram aparentes – uma, estava com frio, a outra, com muita fome.
Fechei a porta, cortei e coloquei um pedaço da minha obra-prima num prato.

Bem, pelo menos era palatável. A carne, no meu molho bem temperado, estava saborosa. O resto? Menos dito, mais rápido corrigido.

Os “alguns ajustes” tornaram-se uma espécie de maratona, impulsionados apenas pelo meu entusiasmo, música adorável e “recargas” com excelente vinho.

Foi um desastre sangrento..

Ah, sim, vou comê-lo – pouco a pouco. Mas a tentativa de recuperar o prato adorável que comi há muitos anos falhou – redondamente.

Atualização quarta-feira, 25/09/2024 às 13h35
Tenho três ‘R’s favoritos – Retribuição, Redenção e Trégua.

Estou de mente aberta em relação a este ‘prato’, e refiro-me apenas ao que já preparei.
Talvez depois de serem repartidos e congelados durante algum tempo, possa achá-los um pouco mais apetitosos.
Não voltarei a repetir a tentativa do prato, muito tempo e esforço, por uma recompensa aparentemente escassa.
Além disso, fiz demasiado “molho” para as duas beringelas, pelo que sobrou uma quantidade considerável para esta manhã. Sendo para o mousakka, reduzi o teor de água com uma fervura lenta, pelo que o molho ficou muito “espesso”.
Decidi converter o restante substancial em ‘chili’. Mas espere, isso significava adicionar malaguetas picadas (a minha escolha habitual) ou pimenta em pó, qualquer um dos quais precisaria que o resto fosse cozinhado novamente. Optei por um molho picante ‘piri-piri’ da linha ‘Professional’ da Makro.
Eu uso este último em frango de churrasco, etc., mais o ‘triturado’ para ‘energia’ extra.
Assim, depois de adicionar uma generosa porção de feijão vermelho, acrescentei um pouco de água e um pouco do molho picante de piri-piri – sem ciência, apenas o meu conhecimento e experiência com churrascos.
Depois, em lume brando e mexendo frequentemente, para além do meu tinto ‘Dao’ favorito, foi considerado pronto para um teste de sabor.
Uma pequena colherada foi colocada na minha boca. A carne picada estava tenra e saborosa, e o sabor forte, delicioso. Que os meus órgãos sensoriais nasais sinalizaram pânico, não há dúvida – espirrei com força.
Depois de se assoar e beber mais vinho, o sabor delicioso manteve-se. ‘Uau!’ Pensei, ‘isto foi adorável!’. Um pouco mais tarde outra prova, desta vez com um dos feijões incluído.
Sem espirros, sem olhos lacrimejantes, apenas uma sensação de prazer.
Essencial – um ‘chili’ deve ser sempre acompanhado por um componente ‘calmante’. Massa, Arroz – até puré de batata cozida.
Um pouco depois, gozei com uma dose generosa, com massa Fusili – que delícia!

E a árvore ‘R’s?
Retribuição – Pela minha ignorância.
Redenção – Um subproduto do resto que é verdadeiramente adorável.
Tréguas – Uma barriga cheia e a perceção de que nem tudo estava, de facto, perdido, para além de uma boa gargalhada de mim próprio.

O restante de ambos os pratos será congelado. Os rótulos da minha versão ‘chilificada’ serão rotulados como ‘Carne e feijão vermelho em molho picante Piri-PIri’.

‘Beija-me Piri-Piri, beija-me,
Emocione-me Piri-Piri emocione-me.
Não me importo mesmo que exploda,
Mas Piri Piri – ‘Uh-Hã?’
Não pare!

[Com os nossos pedidos de desculpa a Shirley Bassey, Michael Julien e Albon Timothy]
Veja-a no Youtube: Shirley Bassey – Kiss Me, Honey, Honey.

Accidents and Incidents

‘Acidentes’ e Incidentes.

Porquê a referência acentuada aos acidentes? Porque, como sabemos pelos velhos e sábios pais que nos ensinaram, e pelos seus pais, e pelos pais antes deles – “os acidentes quase nunca acontecem”.

Existe geralmente alguém, ou mais provavelmente o comportamento separado, mas combinado, de alguém e de outros, que, à primeira vista, não são partes no “acidente”, todos “contribuem” para o “acidente”.

Fale com um polícia de trânsito – não há “acidentes” de trânsito, certamente não no Reino Unido, alguém, talvez mais, desempenhou um papel no incidente. Assim sendo, o que antes era a abreviatura ‘RTA’, agora RTI – Incidente de Trânsito Rodoviário. E acredito com razão.

A lógica “difusa” pode ser aplicada, perante uma medida de responsabilidade a todos os envolvidos, quer estejam presentes ou não.

Dê uma vista de olhos nesta fotografia. o que acha?

[English]
‘Accidents’ and Incidents.

Why the accented reference to accidents? Because as we know from the wise old parents that taught us, and from their parents, and parents before them – ‘accidents hardly ever happen’.

There is usually someone, or more likely the separate, but combined behavior of someone and others, who, at first glance are not party to the ‘accident’, all ‘contribute’ to the ‘accident’.

Talk to a traffic cop – there are no road traffic ‘accidents’, certainly not in the UK, someone, maybe more, have played a role in the incident. Therefore, what used to be the shorthand ‘RTA’, is now an RTI – Road Traffic Incident. And I believe rightly so.

‘Fuzzy’ logic can be applied, given a measure of responsibilty to all concerned, whether they be present or not.

Take a look at this photograph. what do you think?
Click on photo to enlarge it.
Clique na foto para a ampliar.

Eu tenho um cenário para ti. Um idoso está a falar com um amigo por cima de uma vedação. A conversa termina e o tipo volta para a estrada, mesmo no caminho de um camião carregado, não muito diferente do acima. O condutor pisa forte no travão e para o veículo antes de atingir o idoso.

A energia cinética armazenada na pilha mal protegida de blocos empilhados demasiado alto atrás dele faz com que a pega fraca, aplicada incorretamente, se rompa e os blocos sejam catapultados para a frente, atingindo o senhor idoso. Morre mais tarde no hospital.

Há algum tempo, um familiar meu próximo veio passar uma curta estadia. Testemunhou mais do que um incidente com o exemplo do comportamento do “velho cavalheiro” e, pior, de pessoas muito mais jovens, a fazerem exatamente a mesma coisa. Ele observou que isto cheirava a “solipsismo”. [procure!]
Uma perspectiva interessante, pensei.

Tenho aqui as minhas próprias opiniões sobre quem é o culpado, e também o “grau” da sua respectiva culpabilidade.
Diga-me o que pensa.

Esteja ciente de que existe a tentação de sugerir que a “teoria da probabilidade” poderia ser utilizada para distribuir graus de culpa. Isto seria errado, pois na verdade todos os “acidentes” têm “cenários” diferentes.
Lógica difusa(Wikipedia)

[English]
I have a scenario for you. An elderly guy is talking over a fence to a friend. Their conversation ends, and the guy steps back onto the road, right into the path of a loaded truck, not unlike that above. The driver steps hard on his brake, and brings his vehicle to a stop before hitting the elderly gentleman.

Kinetic energy stored in the badly-secured stack of blocks piled too high behind him, result in the feeble strap, incorrectly applied, snapping, and blocks catapulting forward, hitting the elderly gent. He dies later in hospital.

Some considerable time ago, a close relative of mine came for a short stay. He witnessed more than one incident of the example of the ‘old’ gent’s behaviour, and worse, by folks much younger, doing exactly the same thing. He had remarked that it smacked of ‘solipsism’. [look it up!]
An interesting perspective, I thought.

I have my own opinions about who is being culpable here, and also the ‘degree’ of their respective culpability.
Tell me what you think.

Be aware that there is a temptation to imply that ‘probability theory’ could be used to apportion degrees of guilt. This would be wrong, as in fact all ‘accidents’ have different ‘scenarios’.
Fuzzy Logic (Wikipedia)

Time Bandits Strike Again

Back in March 2010 I scribbled a post on my old joebrown blog about ‘losing’ a day. That article was about ‘perceived’ reality. Latterly, I’ve been reminded again, just how much I attempt to cram into my llfe, and the effects of doing so. A (still unfinished) tale now occupies over 200 pages of A4, and is chock full of ‘encounters’, spread over a period of several weeks.

The ‘timeline’ has to be correct, and I discovered a few days ago, I’d managed to ‘accelerate’ time and moved forward in the tale by one whole day.
The painstaking effort to ascertain the ‘problem’, and further how to ‘solve’ it, has meant some considerable time being spent – again, ‘robbing’ me of time.

I remembered the old blog, from a small collection of ‘The Occasional Diarist’ tales I had written. In this case the missive was named ‘The Revenge of The Time Bandits’. That the said ‘Bandits’ read my blog and simply waited patiently to ‘punish’ me is unlikely, but it is interesting that I have manifested my lack of grip over time in a work of fiction, as well as my ‘outages’ in real life.

I believe I have a solution, I won’t say what it is, which may spoil the story for you when it is published, should you read it.

The ‘old’ Time Bandits missive follows:

Tuesday March 16th 2010
I’ve been robbed! I’ve been robbed of one of the things most dear to me, of which I have only a finite amount left – a day!

Trouble is I’m still trying to work out which day has been stolen, as I only discovered the loss yesterday. I spent most of yesterday assuming it was Sunday 14th March, and only started to suspect something was wrong when reviewing the TV menu early evening, I saw that EastEnders was on at 8.00pm, but more importantly CSI Sunday on Five USA had apparently been cancelled. A check of the date on my PC confirmed my suspicions – a day had definitely gone AWOL.

I spent some time last night wandering around the house trying to recall what day I had carried out which tasks, but sadly I’m none the wiser. Fact is, extensive re-modelling of my office has been done and other than that, (which was well overdue) I can see precious little else in the way of achievements.

I tried re-constructing backwards in time, but this is so counter-intuitive to me I gave it up as a bad job. So I started with what I remember about the beginning of the week.

Now on Sunday (the 7th) I had to miss a concert at the Sage because of severe instability in my spine. Monday saw things getting worse with almost no respite from spinal spasms. I thought it couldn’t get worse, but Tuesday saw me finally being ferried to an emergency appointment at the Doctor’s surgery, because almost every movement caused me to grunt, groan or curse – almost like a sufferer from Terret’s syndrome.

My GP prescribed Morphine for the pain and Diazepam to help alleviate the spinal muscle spasms, and I have to admit that by 9.00 pm in the evening, things were bearable, and I had some mobility back without uttering profanities at each step.

I had made my mind up that whilst taking the narcotics, as well as not driving my car, I shouldn’t write any code either, as this would be probably write-only, (can’t understand it later) bugged beyond belief, and would probably have to be binned at a later date because it was deeply flawed. Not that any of the code is to control an Airbus, a Toyota car, or a Linear Accelerator mind, but it will be controlling stepper-motors in a CNC machine, so I have postponed working on it for now.

So instead of anything cerebral, I set about re-vamping the workshop/office. This has now become an annual task, as I re-factor the positions of equipment, wiring runs etc., so as to correct the infamous stove-pipe anti-pattern that the workshop/office becomes as it evolves to suit new projects/requirements.

Well, that was the intention anyway. Trouble is I’ve spent quite a long time sleeping. My 20-minute siestas had become 2-3 hours, and even awake I felt woozy – but pleasantly so, in a laid-back, what-the-hell way. Towards the end of the week (or what I thought was the end of the week) my back felt much better, and I reduced the doseage of both the Diazepam and Morphine, then the day following stopped taking them altogether and went back to my normal muscle-relaxant and analgesia products.

Somewhere in the middle of the above, the time bandits took advantage of my relaxed guard and crept in and stole a day.

Now I’ve double-checked both leaflets supplied with the medication, and there is no mention of any side-effects regarding time-bandit attacks. Perhaps this is a rare occurrence, perhaps the drug manufacturers don’t want to admit liability for time loss, or perhaps I needed the sleep? I suspect we’ll never know.


Belief in Divine Intervention shown to be worthless, so I’ve done this stuff myself.

Letters, Read Just One Last Time

First published on my earlier joebrown site in 2010

For many dark years, you could not open the cupboard, or the box in the safe. To leaf through the first few photographs would be enough to send you over the edge, to sit on the floor with them spread around you and cry like a lost child. But that was then. Taken from the cupboard you now have your lost life pinned up where you can see them all, celebrate them all. There is still grief, but it is manageable.

The box took longer, is still taking longer. The words in the first few letters become unreadable through ceaseless tears.
For a long time the temptation to simply tip the lot into a pile and burn them has been there, and that is what should happen, but you find that you cannot, but have made yourself a promise – before their immolation as a payment to hopefully halt your grief, you must read each of them just one last time.

To date September 2024, still not done. A ‘wallow’ is something I can definitely do without, given the last few dark, miserable, years.

One I did read again, that was never sent. Names changed.
Download or Read in Browser: The4thLetter

The Crystal

Back in my early school Physics lessons, a teacher I respected deeply, spoon-fed me, and other form-members, the beginnings of an understanding of our physical world. The knowledge that everything was held together with energy – in fact that everything itself was a form of energy, had a deep and lasting effect upon me. My thirst for further understanding was a compelling, driving force, which unfortunately quickly hit an insurmountable wall – the feebly finite level of my own intelligence. Despite several attempts to understand, I regretfully filed the then current theories of the creation of our universe into the box labelled ‘Accept, but without understanding’. Fortunately this is a metaphoric box, as it has grown uncontrollably in size almost exponentially, having over the years had heaped into it more and more of my acceptances of the ‘abstractions’ by which we all have to live, and make a living by.

By necessity then, we accept the technology that puts into use the science which most of us barely understand. We observe the results, and because they match the theories, or at least our understanding of the theories, don’t question any further. The truth is always more complex than that which is immediately observable by us. In fact we now know that our mere observation of certain phenomena is certainly capable of changing the phenomena itself. Although we also accept that our observations will also change us, the manner and diversity of the changes upon us can remain entirely unpredictable, and at times may not manifest themselves in a way that we are capable of understanding, let alone controlling.

This story is about a man who feels that he has lost, and his partner who sees that he is lost, but cannot help him. His entirely accidental proximity to the mind-blowing work of a genius, threatens to send him hurtling ever downward into a spiral of despair and self-disgust. Nevertheless, he takes up the challenge, accepting that he will either understand it, or be consumed by it, or both.

Warning: The story contains an explicit scene of an intimate sexual nature, and is not suitable for minors, or those who are easily offended.

Download or read in Browser The Crystal

Witness

Ladies. Be careful about knocking on a stranger’s door, even when your friend is with you. You may be afraid of him. You may be attracted to him. You may want to make love to him. What will he want from you?

 
Warning: This story contains explicit sexual references, and is not suitable for minors, or those folks easily offended.

‘Witness’ is Copyright (C) 2014 J.W.Brown
Download, or open in Browser: Witness

The Follies Of Saint-Palais-sur-Mer

First published on joebrown.org.uk on 2012/07/16
I turned, and we walked the short distance back to Carthowen’s overblown mansion, it’s grotesque kitsch borrowed from the styles of a hundred different worlds.
He halted suddenly when he saw Cilla and the hapless Carthowen, tethered by his neck ring to the rear of the saddle.
I laughed. “Don’t be afraid of her. She is here to protect you and take you home, so climb aboard.”
I waited until he was in the saddle, then climbed up after him, and whispered softly to Cilla. “Sbwriel yn Anwylyd, er ei fod yn rhoi drosedd i syllu arnynt.”
She turned her head to face the house and drew breath.

When she had finished, all that was left of Carthowen’s monstrous folly was a pile of incandescent rubble, and his anguished whimpering behind me.
I made no comment as we lifted into the air.


(From ‘Closed Circle‘ by the author)

It isn’t very often that I come across a house that I don’t like. Most appear aesthetically pleasing, some outstandingly attractive. The remainder are generally banal, even boring, but not usually causing me offense.

There is the odd building though, that sets off a physical wrinkling in my nose, a psychological jangling of broken bells in my head. Fortunately, I’ve found it easy to turn my head and look elsewhere, maybe at a more pleasing specimen. But what if you find yourself in a road, where every house looks like a badly reconstructed dog’s breakfast? Where do you look? What do you do now?
Well it did happen – some time ago, on a holiday in Vaux-sur-Mer. And I did do something – I took photographs of some of the hideous monstrosities as my girlfriend and I progressed down the road.

Now, several years later, I’m busy re-visiting photos, with a view to making these available for friends on the website, and I came across them.

This part of the French coastline, just north of Royan is a popular getaway for thousands of Frenchmen, amongst the richest of whom, have built themselves weekend homes.
Some of these homes draw on, and blend favourably with, the local building styles, and are both attractive and easy on the eye. Some of them sadly, are not, and reflect a tasteless and uninformed collage of styles ranging from la belle epoch to the present day, from almost every country in Europe, all rolled-up in one house. The result is ghastly, so bad that it’s completely hilarious.

Finally, I would like to add that there are two gorgeous beaches here, lots to see, plenty good food to be had, a lively market and very friendly people – a lovely place for a holiday in fact. (so the weekend French have got something right)

The ‘Follies’

M4011M-1402

M4011M-1402

M4011M-1402

M4011M-1402

M4011M-1402

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M4011M-1402

M4011M-1402

M4011M-1402

A footnote. June, my girlfriend at the time, had remarked when we visited Royan, that everything had been built from the from the fifties onwards. I had made no remark other than to agree with her. To have ‘mentioned the war’ was not on my agenda.
I had talked later to a lovely lady friend who taught German in a college in Ely,and she had confirmed that several German friends had visited, as Royan was considered to be a ‘war grave’.
Indeed it was. Retrospective opinion regarded the complete devastation of Royan by ‘carpet’ bombing, including the use of napalm, to have been completely unnecessary, and the huge French and German casualties to be regarded as nothing short of a war crime.

A Newcastle Walk in 2012

Tyne Bridge at night.

Section of Newcastle for walk.

Turn right off Grainger Street onto Market Street (top left of map).
Turn right into Grey Street when you see Theatre Royal
Follow Grey Street south to join Dean Street, then contiue south on The Side.
Turn left onto Sandhill, then under the Tyne Bridge.
Follow the Quayside East and cross over to Gatehead on the Millenium Bridge.
Visit The ‘Sage’, now infamously named as ‘The Glasshouse’ (How Original – which moron made that decision?)
The Tyne Bridge can be accessed via several streets, for the walk back over to Newcastle.
Don’t ignore All Saints Church to the right right of the bridge as you enter Newcastle, it is the only elliptical church building in England.
Thanks to Phil and Linda, for joining me on one of my favourite walks.
Photos of the walk are here:
Photos

Fire 13th September 2024

Qual o preço das culturas ‘de rendimento’ de eucalipto em Portugal?
Que o “verdadeiro” custo de transformar uma grande parte de Portugal numa monocultura NÃO é suportado pelos investidores capitalistas na produção de papel, é demasiado evidente.
Porcarias nojentas transportadas pelo ar. algumas delas ainda ardem, fazem visitas indesejadas aos habitantes próximos e libertam enormes quantidades de CO2 para a atmosfera.

Este ‘seguro’ é pago ao produtor para cobrir as suas perdas, enquanto que NADA é pago aos residentes locais pelos danos colaterais nas suas propriedades e na sua saúde, não é nada menos que uma vergonha.
Tive de proteger os meus painéis solares contra a queda de cinzas quentes há apenas alguns anos e apagar a relva fumegante nas proximidades no meu jardim.
Nessa ocasião saí de Tabuas e passei o resto do dia na costa, onde eu e o meu adorável cão pudemos respirar.

Os efeitos desta poluição podem ser observados em todas as aldeias do Centro de Portugal – feios rastos de fuligem pelas paredes.

O incêndio a que se refere o título deste blogue ocorreu junto ao Fundão, do outro lado da Serra Estrella.
As fotos estão aqui: Fundao Fire

Árvore do dinheiro ou uma abominação?

[English]
What price the ‘cash’ crops of Eucalyptus in Portugal?
That the ‘true’ cost of turning a large part of Portugal into a mono-culture is NOT borne by the Capitalist investors in paper manufacture, is all too apparent.
Filthy airborne crap. some of it still burning, pays unwelcome visits to the denizens nearby, and releases enormous quantities of CO2 into the atmosphere.

That ‘insurance’ is paid to the grower to cover their loss, whilst NOTHING is paid to local local residents for the collateral damage to both their property and their health is nothing short of a disgrace.
I had to protect my solar panels against falling hot ash only a few years ago, and douse smoldering nearby grass in my garden.
On that occasion, I left Tabuas, and spent the rest of the day at the coast, where myself and my lovely dog could breathe.

The effects of this pollution can be see in every village in Central Portugal – unsightly soot trails down walls.

The fire referred to in the title of this blog was close to Fundao, the other side of the Serra Estrella.

Photos are here: Fundao Fire

Money Tree or an abomination?