...thirdly you must hate a Frenchman as you hate the devil!

It was by fortune alone that I happened upon this scene today. Alone in the office, I chose to lock up, take in some air, sling the camera over the shoulder and go for an afternoon stroll during my lunch break. And wouldn't you know it, an entire flotilla of all sorts of ships, boats and all manner of pleasure craft appeared before me!

I felt like Themistocles at Salamis or Nelson at Trafalgar! Only with less bloodshed, and cannons and stuff.

It’s the Australian Wooden Boat Festival, you see. Wooden boats as far as the eye can see!

If you watch this space, I’ll drip feed you some boats...

Comments

USelaine said…

Ooo! Love a good wooden boat, especially the tall ones.

6 February 2009 at 16:28

red dirt girl said…

oh sighs.... more sighs ..... no sight such as this outside any door i walk through ....

already i am thinking english romantic painters ... like JW Turner ... give me time, i might think of more.

6 February 2009 at 17:32

Kris McCracken said…

Elaine, then you need to get down to Tasmania real quick. It runs to the 15th!

6 February 2009 at 18:13

Anonymous said…

I like these wooden boats, but we have not any similar festival here :( what kind of prize u mean? :D

6 February 2009 at 20:13

Kris McCracken said…

Red dirt mule, close your eyes and try to imagine it!

7 February 2009 at 16:00

Kris McCracken said…

Tehran Daily, it's only every second year here. I was thinking an architectural prize or something like that.

7 February 2009 at 16:02

red dirt girl said…

as you might have noted, a mule is no good if she's a'wearin' blinders, so i do appreciate the additional photos - gorgeous boats - all - except for that monstrous 'tuna can of the seas' touristy thing ....

rdm

7 February 2009 at 16:26

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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