QUEST FOR LIBERTY?
Actually … liberties, plural (I tend to take ’em all the time).
So here’s your first, a saddened cynical look at the ages-old Quest for immortality—
—be it physical, spiritual, or simply within living memory. The Winton cemetery is kept well mown (and fairly well de-rubbished) but I guess maintenance of individual graves and things is left to the survivors for as long as they too shall last.
After that, the Hero of the past becomes just a name on a slab (and even that loses lustre in the fashions of the times)—
SIC TRANSIT GLORIA MUNDI
Just look at those rifles—state of the art in their time—they wouldn’t pass muster today even as rabbit weapons. No magazines anyway (artistic licence?).
Immortal glory … do you remember those glorious immortals of the great Battle of the Pass? The 300 Spartans whose name liveth (forgive lithp) for ever more? Most folks do remember Thermopylae, but who can name any of the Spartans*? So how about instead—
THE QUEST FOR FOOD
which in nature is an ongoing affair. Very few animals plough, sow, reap, hoe (some bugs do though) (sort of) which means the quest for a full beak is also eternal.
I shot this QT from above, she was intent on beating against a strong current and I was intent on shooting her efforts. Sadly I was completely out of goodies or she would have been rewarded … possibly just as well because any she missed she might have turned back for (and then would have to spend more calories simply catching up again than she’d have scored).
SO, a quest for JOURNALISM?
Who didn’t marvel at those eyes, I ask, when first ’twas published? And who didn’t wonder whatever happened to the wee lassie? (Not me.)(I never gave her a thought until I came across this update)—
—and here she be again. According to Nat Geog that’s her, right enough.
You know, it never occurred to me that anyone might go on a quest to relocate her, but there ya go …
AND NOW, A QUEST
to find the world’s very best farming practises.
First let me set the scene:
often on my walks I like to pass through Winton and hoof on out to their golfing course and beyond. Along the road there used to be a wee line of beautiful young oaks, and in season I’d gather a few acorns for The Spouse (she’s an artist).
The last time I walked by there I discovered that those gorgeous young oaks were now less than half their previous height, they’d been expertly pruned by some arboreal husbanding genius’s delicate touch.
One has but to admire the precision—
—and the artistry, delicacy, and craftsmanship of the
oaf horticulturalist concerned.
And that is how we do things down here: damn the torpedoes! Full ahead both! Yeah …
There were several dozen such survivors but I don’t think they’ll ever amount to much now (if anyone wants I can go on a quest to capture more shots like these?).
Yep. Here in Southland we have the world’s best farmers, tree trimmers, rugby players, most svelte
battle-maidens women … you name it, we have it all. But—
—but I’m now going on a self-imposed quest to find a modest Southlander.
The only genuinely modest Southlander
A real challenge; I fear the cruise may be a long one. Don’t wait up.
* Other than the commander, of course