Whales harassed by jet ski in Shellharbour

I recently visited Shellharbour as a tourist and was privileged to view humpback whales from the coastline. But for the whales seeking sanctuary in this harbour during their southern migration, I found that their space is not always respected. This is my experience.

It's early October, and a contingent of long lens photographers are beginning to gather at Bass Point in Shellharbour when I arrive at the Reserve. They clearly know each other, with the mood cheerful.

Large cameras sit atop tripods. Camp chairs on a grassy hill facing the shimmering ocean are occupied. A photographer is chatting to a lady about wind direction and I'm eager to eavesdrop. I have heard that whale watching can be an exercise in persistence, but I get word that a whale is out there and I catch my first glimpse.

I do not have to wait long to witness my first breach, as my binoculars train on an energetic calf twisting and backflipping high into the air, coming down with a splash. It is exciting, exhilarating, an unscripted yet showstopping wonder of nature.

The calf continues to play and gradually moves away under water with its mother. I move along too, diligently following some photographers down the hill, as they happily answer my whale questions. I am on the rock shore line when the calf pops up again. Cameras start snapping like papparazzi.

A Jet Ski type watercraft moves rapidly from the direction of the marina towards the whales a distance off Bass Point. I wait for it to stop to respect the exclusion zones, which authorities define as 100 metres or 300 metres for a whale with calf. The Jet Ski does not stop for either of those metrics. 

The Jet Ski, with one passenger, moves quickly to within metres of the whales, a calf and its mother, as both riders pull out mobile phones. The Jet Ski circles and then moves away and then circles back as a whale breaches, missing the Jet Ski, and the vehicle circles again, arguably tormenting these creatures, and unmistakably breaking the law as it is defined. 

The NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service define harassing and chasing of whales as illegal activity that should be reported. I watch in disbelief, and wonder about the whale mother's stress levels.

I am unfamilar with whale behaviour, but I overhear a bystander comment that the continuous splashing and lunging is likely the whale trying to establish a boundary. It is explicitly uncomfortable to watch, as I look to the marina expectantly for the arrival of some type of marine authority who I imagine monitor their waters in the harbour, on a long weekend during school holidays, during a whale migration, who could speed over to provide some sanctuary to these whales. Protected whales.

Commendably, around me, the photographers are clicking away, taking footage, recording evidence. There is commentary from many bystanders that suggests this is a frequent occurrence with some Jet Ski riders. All are capturing the licensing details, discussing the extent that the law is being broken. For my part, I helplessly video and audio the incident on my mobile phone. 

An event that needs capturing, evidently, as I later discover the reporting system can rely on bystanders recording and reporting a minimum of 30 seconds of footage of harassment, including vehicle licensing.  

Back in my home town, I consider the importance of enforcement when it comes to marine life protection laws. Can more be done to protect humpback whales? Because as I watched that Jet Ski return to the marina, it struck me that the rider wore the confidence of someone who regularly torments marine life. A good argument for on the spot enforcement of laws for those lack basic common sense in those situations, or respect for marine life, or the law.

Elizabeth Neil is a freelance writer who travelled to Shellharbour as a tourist.

Humpback whales harrassed by jet ski in Shellharbour

I recently visited Shellharbour as a tourist and was privileged to view humpback whales from the coastline. But for the whales seeking sanctuary in this harbour during their southern migration, I found that their space is not always respected by humans. This is my experience.

It's early October, and a contingent of long lens photographers are beginning to gather at Bass Point in Shellharbour when I arrive at the Reserve. They clearly know each other, with the mood cheerful.

Large cameras sit atop tripods. Camp chairs on a grassy hill facing the shimmering ocean are occupied. A photographer is chatting to a lady about wind direction and I'm eager to eavesdrop. I have heard that whale watching can be an exercise in persistence, but I get word that a whale is out there and I catch my first glimpse.

I do not have to wait long to witness my first breach, as my binoculars train on an energetic calf twisting and backflipping high into the air, coming down with a splash. It is exciting, exhilarating, an unscripted yet showstopping wonder of nature.

The calf continues to play and gradually moves away under water with its mother. I move along too, diligently following some photographers down the hill, as they happily answer my whale questions. I am on the rock shore line when the calf pops up again. Cameras start snapping like papparazzi.

A Jet Ski type watercraft moves rapidly from the direction of the marina towards the whales a distance off Bass Point. I wait for it to stop to respect the exclusion zones, which authorities define as 100 metres or 300 metres for a whale with calf. The Jet Ski does not stop for either of those metrics. 

The Jet Ski, with one passenger, moves quickly to within metres of the whales, a calf and its mother, as both riders pull out mobile phones. The Jet Ski circles and then moves away and then circles back as a whale breaches, missing the Jet Ski, and the vehicle circles again, arguably tormenting these creatures, and unmistakably breaking the law as it is defined. 

The NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service define harassing and chasing of whales as illegal activity that should be reported. I watch in disbelief, and wonder about the whale mother's stress levels.

I am unfamilar with whale behaviour, but I overhear a bystander comment that the continuous splashing and lunging is likely the whale trying to establish a boundary. It is explicitly uncomfortable to watch, as I look to the marina expectantly for the arrival of some type of marine authority who I imagine monitor their waters in the harbour, on a long weekend during school holidays, during a whale migration, who could speed over to provide some sanctuary to these whales. Protected whales.

Commendably, around me, the photographers are clicking away, taking footage, recording evidence. There is commentary from many bystanders that suggests this is a frequent occurrence with some Jet Ski riders. All are capturing the licensing details, discussing the extent that the law is being broken. For my part, I helplessly video and audio the incident on my mobile phone. 

An event that needs capturing, evidently, as I later discover the reporting system can rely on bystanders recording and reporting a minimum of 30 seconds of footage of harassment, including vehicle licensing.  

Back in my home town, I consider the importance of enforcement when it comes to marine life protection laws. Can more be done to protect humpback whales? Because as I watched that Jet Ski return to the marina, it struck me that the rider wore the confidence of someone who regularly torments marine life. A good argument for on the spot enforcement of laws for those lack basic common sense in those situations, or respect for marine life, or the law.

Elizabeth Neil is a freelance writer who travelled to Shellharbour as a tourist.

The niche world of the antiques fair

While vintage shopping is certainly in fashion among younger crowds, who eschew fast fashion for its often unethical manufacturing practices and lack of sustainability, I’m not sure antique shopping is on their radar, just yet. I recently went to my first antiques fair and found it left the modern consumerist society and its relentless pursuit of things in the dust. For the sake of preserving history, you could give antique fairs a go. 

Things are at a different pace at an antiques fair. Everything slows down. It’s like watching an old movie through a 35mm slide viewer. The buyers appreciate items with approving nods, deliberate, debate, does an appraisal of products, checking and comparing prices with a competitor’s store – although sometimes comparable items are circa hundreds of years apart, which I guess would make it a bit complicated if you were trying to buy a new iPhone circa 1830. 

The buyers delve deep into the history with the seller, and share stories of similar items held within their families. I guess you could call me an antiques fair eavesdropper. I met a man who owns a 15^th Century cabinet from Normandy that he uses to store his evening beverages and showcase his model aircraft. I admired a Victorian mahogany writing slope, with a spot for your quills and ink and a storage area for whatever they stored in 1860, and I wondered if the seller would throw in a free workplace assessment to get me set up at home. 

An antiques fair is not the headspace of the modern consumer or indeed one with an increased cost of living, and many who like contemporary furniture, state-of-the-art goods and other quick and dirty (and low-priced) products of questionable quality and resilience. We are so used to cheap products being seized off shelves with a fleeting glance at its price, with a quick selection of which colour to purchase.

I bought a spoon.

The consumer may check where the product was made on the tag, but no great concession is really made on that account if the product is what the consumer wants or needs. And once that product expires, a new one will replace it and the cycle will continue forever until we are no longer absorbed by the endless pursuit of consumer goods and shopping for the sake of it, or until toasters are no longer required and bread just cooks itself.

Antique fairs are definitely a niche, but there is something to be said for the romanticism perhaps of the story cards attached to antique items, that describe the piece, its origin if known and when and why it was in use, and it encourages, at least for myself, more research into the history. 

My starting strategy at the fair to cypher the antiques buyers and sellers code was to watch and learn and then see pretty things I know nothing about and buy them. A consumerist strategy that is ill-advised at an antiques fair, but it’s an honest life, and an honest strategy. I certainly did not go into it intending to buy a stunning pale blue early Victorian (1837-1901) salt glazed ale jug circa 1850, but when in Rome. More on that later.

There were not a lot of clocks, which was disappointing as I come from a long ancestry of collectors of time tellers, and evidently (someone told me at the fair) there are many stories of clocks discontinuing working when their owner operator passes. Perhaps that person had a special way, knew how to work the dong, had the midas touch.

I’m not sure what I was expecting but it was not a heavy supply of antiques of English Georgian, Victorian or Edwardian origins. The western consumer in me speculated what I could possibly do with a Georgian silver plated tea urn circa 1780, a Victorian silver plated biscuit sachet maker circa 1880 or a brass candlestick circa 1870, but I maybe missed the point. It is preserving history, not buying a thing that I need. As it turns out, I googled the pale blue Victorian jug as I was walking around and found it to be really quite overpriced and over my set budget so it didn’t come home with me. Research helps enormously, whether you’re a newby or have been in this game for years. 

A top tip for newby collectors is if you see something significant to you that sparks joy (and is under your set budget), buy it. I saw a charming delicate gold spoon that was reasonably priced and I bought it. Sparked joy. Not sure it’s tough enough to swivel my morning coffee, but it looks pretty.

I also met a man whose son runs a business clearing out old estates who told me about the increasing volume of vintage and antique pieces that are consigned to the garbage dump. With that in mind, I would say attach a story card to all your possessions that are important, sentimental or whimsical to you, so they can be discussed at an antiques fair in the future. If there is a story card, I will read it.

Canberra's Floriade 2022: A Paris Fashion Week inspiration

It's that time of the year again, when an epic public event in Canberra displays the latest collections in runway shows to the public, influencing upcoming backyard garden trends for the approaching flower season. Floriade 2022. It’s the Paris Fashion Week for flowers.

Canberra's annual spring flower show at Floriade showcases millions of flowers in bloom. It's the time when locals come out from their wintertime Jerusalem artichoke patches and tourists bus in en masse to the city centre to see the latest collections, which run for a month across September/October.

It’s a Saturday afternoon, and the ready-to-smell flowers greet me as I walk in one of the gates, as do the friendly volunteers, while also fulfilling their role of walking information and advice bureaus. While it is not explicitly posted at the gate that advises the house rules, it is strongly encouraged that you take endless photos wherever possible.

At the gate, there are tulips mounted in tough steel wheelbarrows, but it’s true what they say about tulips; they can look good in a garbage bag or a wheelbarrow. It’s overcast but these flowers do not need a blue sky setting to be the centre of attention. Indeed, the inclement weather has done not a thing to dull their joyfulness.

All the famed flowers are here. Tulips - the darling, the Dior of this assembly of florae – is the star of the show, bursting colourfully from bunches, wheelbarrows, garden beds and across all the merchandise of bags, clothing and anything else you could imagine, very ably accompanied by the equally pretty supporting troupe of flowers.

Before wandering around, I grab a coffee from a delightful teal and white café caravan and sit at their tables that are sheltered by giant black and white striped umbrellas. I hear what I determine is Australian country music that has my foot tapping as I watch one of the tulip runways near me that runs between the garden beds. 

The tulips are the perfect models, the garden beds are their catwalk, and the red carpet makes way for a red gravel runway. Who needs Paris Fashion Week when you have Canberra’s Floriade? 

And this runway is busy! A young woman runs back to her spot in front of the tulips and other blooming assortments before her professional-looking camera equipment featuring tripod snaps a photo without her in it. A family of ten poses in front of some the gardens. Some have come in their favourite vibrant colour, some are dressed up, there are no rules to be followed with colour coding, but it seems brighter is a widespread choice. Teenagers take selfies. Adults take selfies. Everyone is taking selfies. If dogs were allowed entry they would be prancing through the garden beds and then taking selfies.

Fine art enthusiasts and Instagram devotees get right up close and personal to the delicate models on their stems with their iPhone, and then do another shot with the ferris wheel in the background. And then do it all over again until the shot is precise. Close-ups, distance shots, analysis of the colours, the textures, fine scrutiny of the structure of the stems (okay, that was a child who then received a lecture full of disappointment from his mother).

There is not an angle or perspective that wasn’t explored on that runway, and I wonder how many of the striking blooms were digitally altered before their debut on social media to friends appearing more contoured, more vibrant. I think back to the day, before smart phones, when we just stopped to smell the flowers rather than photograph and edit them for social media. They don’t need more contouring or airbrushing, but I guess it doesn’t hurt local tourism.

Meanwhile, over at Paris Fashion Week, Victoria Beckham's Spring 2022 Ready-to-Wear Collection has dropped, and the fashion designer has been seen around that town in fashion inspired by...tulips from Canberra's Floriade perhaps? Colours sells, and tulips know it.

Even cowboys watch the setting Hawaiian sun

It’s sunset on the world-famous Waikiki beach. Is it Monday, or a Thursday, I don’t know. Out on a concrete jetty, local teens are gathered in large groups down the end before individually flinging themselves off the seawall into the ocean below into a giant swell or as it breaks on the rock wall. 

Like the activities of teens anywhere in the world, the practice looks relatively unsafe. Their friends help them clamour up the wooden planks on the seawall so they can do it again.

A blue sign with white writing lists the beach rules. No boozing, no tents, no annoying tourist behaviour, that sort of thing. 

There is a preacher across the road preaching, reading from the Bible. He is being drowned out by the crashing of the surf on the shore and against the sea wall. This week is a super full moon which comes with very prominent tides and swells.

Up on the beach, a young man in mirrored sunglasses and orange swimming shorts jumps onto his tattered red hammock that is perfectly roped between two robust palm trees. Like a cowboy jumping on the back of his mount, he is ready to ride off into the sunset. He has no spurs but there is a pair of sandals neatly placed at the base of one of the trees. He kicks the ground to send the hammock into a low swing. The trade winds will keep it going. Did I mention he is wearing a black cowboy hat?

It’s windy tonight and sea breezes are already working the beach. The persuasive palm trees along this stretch of sand dutifully sway for all the hammocked cowboys and the tourists, their soulful influence mesmerising all beach comers and beachcombers. Their coconuts heavily fortified to avoid any accidents that would make a tourist’s stay in Waikiki even more unforgettable.

It may well be a controlled psychological effect, but I hear a gentle melodic ukulele everywhere I go in Waikiki, or it might be the ukulele shops I have spotted along the strip that sell the popular Hawaiian musical instrument.

On the jetty a trio of teenagers from Oahu are filming for their YouTube channel. That morning they decided to ask strangers to give them money for completing challenges as requested by the strangers for payment, so they could earn enough money for airfares to neighbouring Maui the next day. They are dripping wet, as they have each just jumped off the jetty for USD$5 each. They are USD$40 short of their target when I ask them.

There are all sorts on the beach – some wrapped up in their own romantic love story, oblivious to other tourists, some sitting alone, some with others, some chatting, some sitting together quietly. The fading blue hues change to yellows and pinks as the sun plays hide and seek behind low clouds and all heads turn its way. It’s strange when you think that all healthy eyesight advice tells you not to look at the sun and then you hit a certain time of the day where you are encouraged to look at the beautification of the sun while it disappears.

The sun is playing peek-a-boo now, challenging the photo taking capabilities of hundreds of iPhone users on the beach. There are tourists watching from their balconies right along the strip. Lots of selfies, lots of photos. 

As the sun peeps out for its final decline, many a tourist’s hands reach up to pretend to embrace or cup the sun in the palm for photos, like a giant interpretative sun dance. And then it is gone and many leave the beach for other activities, and the Maui trio walk off and head into Subway. They will all likely be back tomorrow.

Coles and IKEA recruiting through creative promotions

I have gotten into the spirit of ‘consumerism through children’ with the latest of Australian retailer, Coles', collectable series, which is promoting its new Harry Potter range. 

The Coles Magical Builders are cardboard cut-outs of all the characters from the Harry Potter and the Fantastic Beasts cashcow empires, with the catch (for grown-ups) is you have to assemble them yourself. They come separately swathed in tiny tough cardboard flatpacks with instructions for their assembly on a tiny piece of paper. It’s like miniature IKEA. The instructions are impossible to see and also not terribly helpful but I am also impressed that they produce so little paper wastage.

With a resolve to demonstrate that I have the dexterity and cognitive function of a six year old, I decided to put one together. As it turns out, only tiny fingers can pop out the tiny cardboard fragments of arms and legs and owl wings and wizard beards. 

As ever with activities that are designed for children, I generally require child supervision to work out how to troubleshoot, but not on this occasion! I stabbed those diminutive suckers out using a sharp kitchen knife.

I’m guessing Coles aren’t considering my requirements in their customer base. Speaking of IKEA and companies that know their base, the Swedish megabrand have recently put “career instructions” inside their IKEA products that are labelled “how to assemble your furniture” in a push to recruit people who use IKEA products, which resulted in thousands of applicants and a whole bunch of people were hired who liked and used IKEA products. Hire your brand’s current customers and ambassadors  – good idea. What would also be a good idea would be to put in these boxes ‘how to actually assemble your furniture – like, some actual instructions”. Anyway.

So perhaps, with that in mind, and with the ol’ tradie shortage around areas of Australia that aren’t currently undertaking emergency disaster restorations, Coles perhaps should be looking for future tradies and engineers through this current tiny cardboard promotion. 

If you can assemble the tiny Ron Weasley character without the instructions (or even with the instructions) and you’re only seven, of if can assemble it to put Dumbledore’s head on his knees (but deliberately), then you have just won yourself a fast-tracked carpentry career. Very fast-tracked. Faster than a speeding Japanese superman bullet train. Anyway, there’s some foods for your thoughts, Coles. 

Cinema advertising and the leading genres in movie blockbusters

If you spend a while in the foyer of a major cinema you’ll notice that the movie-making industry really applies itself to the cause of persuading you to buy things, and its efforts are quite productive. 

The ice creamery promotes peace, love and ice cream, with a deeply held predilection that you just buy the ice cream. I feel the need, the need to buy ice cream (an artistic depiction of an iconic Top Gun quote for the two people in the world who may have not seen the cult classic).

The good old fashioned games machines work the room entertaining young children as they contest game after game. People are buying popcorn in ten litre buckets overpowered with butter on the inside and movie marketing on the outside. Even the cinema advertiser advertises itself on a wall monitor. It’s the hustle. 

Some patrons stand back, deep in group negotiations, staring at the electronic boards assessing movies times, personal schedules, movie lengths. They are doing maths. Maths is hard and fraught with danger and should be rewarded with popcorn. Cinemas know this. Two people bolt through the foyer with popcorn. They are late for the start of their movie, but they at least have popcorn, and considerable balance and coordination.

And then the foyer falls quiet. Quiet enough for a moment to hear distant reverberations from cinematic enthusiasm and you can feel the aftershocks through the floor if you are close enough to the action. A cinema foyer is an entertainment gateway and an advertiser's dream.

A movie has finished! Patrons trickle out, gesturing with vast hand movements and excitedly recreating and refashioning portions of the movie script. It undoubtedly was Top Gun: Maverick. Someone alert Tom Cruise; the fans have gone wild. Don’t worry – I think he knows.

His movie has just clocked over USD$1.1 billion of box office sales. It currently sits at the 29th highest grossing film of all time, but likely to crawl higher up that list. Since opening globally in May/June this year, his movie has 51% share of the U.S domestic and worldwide markets, which means folks are heading out in droves to see Tom and his planes.

I feel the need, the need to see this movie.

In movie blockbuster terms, you could reason that  the action genre (encapsulating tales of utter and colossal disaster and Thor) would hold supreme, with the highest gross film of all time (Avatar), the Jurassic series, the Avengers and all manner of other super heroes and now Top Gun in its stables. But this isn’t the case. 

 

Market share for movie genres from 1995-2022 shows that adventure has actually been the number one genre, followed by action, drama  and comedy.

The adventure genre is heavily dominated by distributors Walt Disney and 20^th Century Fox, who are both unrelenting in exploiting their legendary cash cows that include Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, Spider-Man, Hunger Games, Toy Story, Pirates of the Carribean. 

However, at the mid mark of the 2022, it is indeed the action genre (57% of market share) that is leading the pack in blockbusters, with adventure (19%) straggling in its wake. Maybe it’s more Covid-19 fallout, with less adventure movies being made during the last few years. 

Alas, for your noting, if you are thinking of directing an educational movie, please know it traditionally earns 0% market share. Maybe lob some fighter planes in there and email Mark Ruffalo to see if he’s available for a cameo.

Night time at my local Westfield

In lieu of actually travelling anywhere, here’s a spot of travel writing, based on a most unassuming place. 

It’s night time on a week night at Westfield. In a grocery store, shoppers come and stare sadly at the barren, empty lettuce stands, caused by a national lettuce shortage due to floods and an extra frosty start to winter. Does it remind them of something sad? Or did they just want salad for dinner? Some wander over to the potted seed section as an alternative that won’t help with tonight’s dinner.

Outside the grocery store in a main thoroughfare, people walk past shops that have lights on but plastic and metal shutters down. They’ve all gone home for the night. A women in a bright red coat bustles past carrying five bags of various sizes. A man powers past in a power suit heavily laden with plastic grocery bags. Three school girls with giant school bags argue about whether they have time for McDonald’s sundaes before their bus.

Further through the centre, a man in a tracksuit slowly walks past, bouncing a big black backpack that holds a loud baby. He walks into the only other store that is open; the florist. He puts down the backpack and gets the baby out to show her all the flowers. The young hoodlum stops crying. Maybe flowers are calming. Maybe they are just something to look at.

When he leaves the florist tells me who comes in at this time of day. “He's calming his baby because there is nobody here; he has been here before...And sometimes people just want a nice thing in their home to cheer themselves up...and there are people who need flowers urgently for whatever reason”. 

Heading out of the florist, classic casual elevator music is playing loudly in the centre. A recycling truck kid’s ride is lit up and ready for paying customers, it’s right indicator flashing wildly. A man in a blue pin stripe suit walks into the florist and emerges with a pretty potted plant. A man dressed casually in a a classic Canberra black puffer jacket stops, looks in, then walks on. Next time he will get flowers. The florist is open an hour past its bedtime but it seems worthwhile. 

Security walk past; bored, but make eye contact. The guard glances behind him at two teenagers squealing with laughter. Will they make trouble for him tonight? He walks on. Further down the polished tiled corridor retailers in the foodcourt are advertising bargain dinner options. Anyone for 10 hour old rice?

Three Uber drivers with oversized backpacks wait at McDonald’s for their customers order. Another order is barked out by McDonald’s staff; a chocolate sundae for order number 212 purchased by a private school boy. A family of five walk past sharing a single chocolate sundae. That might be the next tantrum.

Leaving Westfield at the golden arches of McDonald’s a man with wild eyes walks past with a determined gait. I look back at he steps into the florist, and the three school girls run past me with their sundaes on the way to the bus interchange.

Bath in Somerset - rubber duck not included

Bath, Somerset, England. Ancient city. Honey-coloured Georgian architecture. Roman ruins. World heritage site. Plug holes on their hop-on-hop-off tourist buses in case the open-air top level takes on rain and it slushes around like in a bath and they can pull the plug. I’m quite sure all topless buses have this feature, but the lowkey delight of it all that this happened to me in Bath. No rubber duck though, alas.

Before you even enter the city, you have to contend with Somerset, the county that houses Bath. It is comprehensive lovely and just so English. Vast green pastures and rolling hills, endless hedges to stop cars falling into the vast green pastures. There is evidence of humans being around in the area since the paleolithic period (see: Fred Flintstone). Subsequent settlements include the Celts, Romans and Anglo-Saxons. 

There are some archaeological digs too, such as Cheddar Gorge, which houses the complete skeleton known as Cheddar Man, which dates to 7,150 B.C. (the skeleton is not made of cheese, in case you were wondering). Glastonbury is also in the area, and is known as a ‘dry point’ (an area of flood-free ground), which is interesting given it is known for the great muddy music festival.  

In Bath, you will find the Royal Crescent, a row of 30 terraced houses in a sweeping curve. It’s known as one of the greatest examples of Georgian architecture in the UK and is a Grade I (building of exceptional interest) listing.

On the other side of town are the Roman Baths. In Ancient Roman times, it was an ancient practice to steam oneself and then slip into a relaxing bath to ease one’s muscles after a hard day building Roman type things and running Roman errands, and attending Roman parent/teacher nights. It gave you a zest for life. It was the zeitgeist.

And the bathing culture lives on. In 2021,  Bath was added to the World Heritage list of  'Great Spa Towns of Europe’, that were developed around natural mineral spring waters. I wonder who funds the payments on all the filtration systems.

On a side note, Bath is also the location where Uranus was discovered. In 1781, William Herschel was outside in his backyard with a homemade telescope when he discovered the planet. Without question one of the most awkward discoveries, but, alas, his Georgian home is now a museum dedicated to him, so there’s that.

Bath is a quick train ride from London but you'll want to give yourself more than a day to have a look around the area. 

Harrods - and that time they sold lions

Today the writing challenge is heading to one of the most celebrated department stores in the world, Harrods of London. It might not strictly meet the brief of places of historical significance, and I appreciate any concern you might have on the matter, and any confusion or inconvenience caused, but Harrods has a long history. And it’s my blog. Also, disclaimer, Harrods is absolutely my favourite. 

In term of shopping centres, it doesn’t get any more exclusive that Harrods, which has voted itself the “world’s most famous department store”, and who can disagree with the GOAT. 

The largest department store in Europe, it is the land of opulence and luxury, lavishness and magnificence, with more than 300 in-house departments in store, and 100,000m2 of fancy handbags, Prada gold clubs and all of the other fabulousness they stock on their shelves. They probably don’t call them shelves; that is too…..Sainsburys. They probably call then product royal mantels, or something. 

Harrods came from modest little beginnings, as everything must do at some point. In 1832, a wee London East End grocery store was established and named after its owner, Mr Harrod. Mr Harrod developed a business portfolio and had some stores about town, that sold various items for which Harrods is now synonymous, but on a much less grander scale. 

The site on which Harrods stands now became a key asset for Mr Harrod and sold perfumes, stationary, medicines and fruit and vegetables. It was not unusual to bump into Sigmund Freud or Oscar Wilde at the checkouts, with Freud psychoanalysing your shopping basket and determining that your Id is well and truly in charge of your grocery list.

Harrods was first to introduce an escalator, because you can’t have Mr Freud wasting all his thought time trying to negotiate stairs when he’s busy psychoanalysing customers. Speaking of psychotic, in the early days, Harrods used to also sell cocaine. In 1916, it used to sell a kit containing cocaine, morphine, syringes and needles, as a present to send to friends on the front in the war. 

And at one point, the store used live snakes to guard expensive jewellery and also introduced the selling of exotic animals including panthers, alligators and lions. Which is awful and extremely random but also so very Edwardian era. In more uplifting news, Harrods has a chip shop in its food and beverage enclave. 

It also has a fabulous souvenir gift store. I own one of Harrods signature items, a shiny olive green tote bag that they sell to the innumerable tourists who pass through the checkouts. I also own a grey one. I’m a sucker for this sort of stuff and have never met a London souvenir that I have not fell instantly in love with in a very serious way. I’ve got three pens that look like the London Buckingham Palace guards, and you press their fur hat to click the pen open. Adorable.

And here’s a cool thing. The new head honcho pastry chef at Harrods is an Aussie. Philip Khoury started working there in 2018 and in December 2021 he was appointed the boss of all things sweet tooth. What a gig! 

In this time, he has begun pioneering plant-based dessert, which he calls the “last frontier” of vegan cuisine, rethinking the traditional eggs and dairy based model as the holy grail of exceptional desserts. Apparently kicking out dairy from the recipe allows other flavours to pop. 

This is interesting, as the global plant-based food market is expected to reach $USD70 million in the next five years, and certainly is projected to double in the UK in that time. Presumably this is a calculated move by Harrods to play in the USD$7 billion plant-based food market (up from USD$5.5 billion in 2019) as consumers are more and more aware around issues relating to food sustainability and nutrition of the products they are consuming. And with up to 300,000 customers a day at its peak, Harrods has an influential role to play.

And if you are lucky enough to visit the beautiful, gargantuan money spinner that is Harrods, and need somewhere to park the Ferrari or the Vauxhall Astra, there is a single carpark nearby that you can buy for a cool £85,000, which is ostensibly about £84,995 more expensive than other parks in the area. 

It comes with a fob, CCTV, a water supply (unclear if they mean a tap, or an Agean Sea type body of water), and a 960 year lease. Yeah, I give the Ferrari engine three months before it blows, let alone 960 years. Or you can just take the Tube like the rest of London.

Egypt - and the big pyramid scheme

Today in my writing challenge of places of historical significance I’m heading to Egypt – which is exciting I guess, but I’m a little confused as to why I chose it. Do they have anything old antiquey, or ancienty? I guess I can take a look to see what I can find but, the last time I checked, they just had those giant Ikea triangles scattered around Giza.

Okay let’s hit up those wonders of Ancient Egypt, the tombs built for three different pharaohs – Ronald McDonald, Hamburlar and Grimace. I present to you… McDonald’s Cairo! Just kidding. 

There is currently no evidence, in prevailing archaeological theory, that Giza’s 4,500-year-old Pyramids, sitting on the ancient necropolis, are memorial structures for the three kings. But they look remarkable, and I feel like the view is unimprovable. The Pyramids look like they would have been an almost supernatural achievement for people to build thousands of years ago, but if really could not have been that hard because there is now one at a hotel in Las Vegas. 

“Being in a pyramid is like being on the internet. It’s full of people worshiping cats, writing on walls and using odd symbols” – The Internets

In Ancient Egypt, the Leader of the Central Government was the pharoah. There were about 300 of them over Egypt’s long history. He was in charge of the yearly rise and fall of the Nile, the fertility of the soil, the keeping of peace, and the fortunes of the army, and was also high priest of all temples, commander-in-chief of the army and head of state administration.

It’s a bit like the current French Government, where Emmanual Macron is charge of national defence down to who is going to fix a Normandy village’s potholes. But the pharoah mostly had minions to do all the work for him. In carvings the pharoah is portrayed as colossal - larger than life - which is to convey a message that they were important and powerful.

We know a lot about the everyday Ancient Egyptians. They lived beside the Nile River, some were poor, some were rich. They worked as farmers, clerks, government officials, craft workers, soldiers, traders, priests. They were foodies. They played games - possibly an early Nintendo, they sang songs - potentially did some rapping, and told bad jokes. They were religious. They made gorgeous building for their gods and made the gods offerings. They believed in life after death and taxes. They travelled. They traded and went to war with other countries.

They were family folk. They loved some of their neighbours, but not all of them. They used makeup and wore different hairstyles. Some were schooled and could read and write. Some went into the family trade. Sometimes they got sick with a toothache, broken bones, malaria and called in the doctor. They rarely lived more than 40 years. They shopped, they fished and hunted. They had pet dogs and cats and gazelles.

How do we know all this? Well not too many of them had Instagram so it’s largely through hieroglyphs; their ancient written and drawn communication method that some people have learnt to read. One day, in thousands of years, someone is going to come across an old Apple iPhone with a cracked screen and think, well they should have carved their thoughts onto a real wall rather than a Facebook feed, because this thing is broken and additionally rechargers haven't existed for 1,500 years. But I digress.

The way to read hieroglyphs was actually forgotten about for 1,000 or so years before Napoleon of France invaded Egypt and the Rosetta Stone was found, which described how to reach them and hieroglyphs were discovered again.

In Ancient Egypt times, people would place everyday and objects in their tombs that would be useful in the next life. If you were poor it might be some pots, but if you were Elon Musk it would furniture, weapons, food, jewellery, a few Teslas and Twitter.

Often they were looted, but some were so well hidden they are preserved to this day – like the pharoah Tutankhamun’s. 2000 of his possessions were in there, many made in gold, including his solid gold death mask (which sounds like something from the disco era). Tutankhamun was not even an important pharoah so we can only imagine what the powerful pharaohs had in their tombs.

Athens speak louder than words

Athens is the heart of Ancient Greece civilisation, with 5^th century BC landmarks just completely littering the place, so move along, nothing to see here.

Today we are heading over to the Acropolis (High city) of Athens, a stunning citadel that sits atop of a rock in the middle of the ancient city. The Acropolis dates back to 447 BC (5^th century BC thus 2,468 years thus 128,793 weeks ago*), and its Parthenon was dedicated to the Greek goddess Athena, the goddess of wisdom and warfare (the jury is out on whether those things go together).

The Acropolis contains the ruins of ancient buildings of great historical and architecture significance, with the Parthenon famously sitting in the centre. While the white marble of the Parthenon has suffered damage over the centuries its basic structure has remained stunningly intact. The structure consists of Doric (ancient Greek style architecture) columns and extremely detailed friezes (a fancy panel of decorations on the roof, but not like bunting) and pediments.

Over its lifetime it’s been used to store munitions, converted into a church and then a mosque, an army barracks, and has widely been looted and bombed. 

The Parthenon is known as a symbol of Athens political, economic and cultural superiority and its democracy, and was built to celebrate the victory over the Persians who had been occupying Athens. It was dedicated to Athena to thank her for her moral support and cheese and olive toasties she provided during the war.

The artwork that was saved in mostly in the Acropolis Museum in Athens.  Back in the day, an interior designer/sculpture was commissioned to decorate the newly established Parthenon. His team whipped up a set of classic Greek marble sculptures – now known as the Parthenon Marbles. 

In 1812, an English aristocrat – the 7^th Earl of Elgin – removed/bought about half of the surviving marbles (other half being in the Athens museum) in a potentially shady business deal, shipped them to Britain, and sold them to the UK Government. I’m just wondering about the shipping costs that Amazon would have charged for that, and what type of ship, and how long it took, and did they get bubble-wrapped for shipping? But that’s not important right now.

Anyway, fast forward to 2022, and a squabble continues between the Greek and UK Governments over who legally owns the Parthenon marbles (colloquially known as the Elgin Marbles), with Greece saying its Acropolis "is the only place you can admire them in context”, and the UK saying it legally acquired them in accordance with laws at the time of them been moved to UK, and probs won’t be giving them back.

Alright, well let’s keep moving through the Acropolis then and try not to get involved in any more international legal disputes. Is Greece looking after its ancient artifacts? One could certainly argue that the preservation of ancient ruins are better off in the gloved hands of museum curators, wherever those museums may be, than laying around the grounds of ancient ruins in Athens.

My mum visited the Acropolis in the 2000s and told me that the columns are just laying around everywhere and she was able to sit on one. 

While the aesthetic of the Acropolis’ skyline is iconic, one could also reason more could be done to prevent erosion of marble and structural damage of temples from acid rain. What about a giant tarp over the top? I don't know, obviously, but researchers must be looking into it surely.

Other things about Athens that are nice to know: 👇

It’s the oldest European capital – 3,400 years oldest 

The Ancient Olympics were never held in Athens – wait, what 

Athens had the first ever democracy, known as demokratia 

Athens has the most theatres in the world, more than Broadway and London’s West End combined 

During construction of transport lines to support the Athens 2002 Olympic Games, one of the greatest archaeological hauls of ancient artifacts were uncovered. How very Athens.

* if this maths is wrong let the record show that I don’t know maths. 

 

Stonehenge - the enigma but also the secrets

Oh Jimmy Christmas, it’s only day two of my A-Z Writing Challenge and I’ve already skipped the letters A through R, which is most definitely a recipe for disaster. That’s okay, we’ll circle back. Speaking of circling back, let’s turn our attention today to the iconic Stonehenge circle of stones, created back in the day (I think that’s one of my finest ever segues actually).

Today on the blog I discuss the mysteries and ambiguities of Stonehenge, that baffling prehistoric iconic circular monument on the Salisbury Plain in Wiltshire, England. 

One of the many things I treasure about England is you can have a 16^th Century church next door to a Sainsbury’s supermarket (or sometimes the Sainsbury's has its own fancy Grade II status endowed upon it by Historic England), or an ancient Roman ruin in the vacant block next door to Doris, an 86-year-old pensioner who lives on Hedge Row in Upper Brampton. The locals find all of this rather ordinary. The historic and the modern sitting side by side is quite perfect.

Look at all the mystery and intrigue dripping off the stone...hedges.

While Stonehenge has had no shortage of attention over its beginnings throughout innumerable periods from scientists, archaeologists, academics and other learned individuals who have had five pints at the local The Haunch of Venison pub in Salisbury, just up the road from the stones, we just don’t really know with any certainty why it is there or where it came from. A bit like the Kardashians really. 

Whoever built it was one of those people who steadfastly refused to advertise their breakfast, their activewear or their weekend stone projects on The Instagrams, thus denying us the truth.

What was its intended purpose? It has been theorised that Stonehenge was intended as a religious site, a cemetery, a celestial space to monitor the sun and moon, a clock, a giant solar calendar, a farming calendar, a site “dedicated to the world of the ancestors, separated from the world of the living" (yeah, that’s a cemetery, just say cemetery), a healing centre. But there is “no definite evidence” as to its intended purpose.

When was it built? This is mostly agreed - it was built in six stages from 3000 to 1520 B.C., from the New Stone Age period to the Bronze Age. It took 1,500 years to 'complete', which is coincidentally about the same amount of working life I have to endure before I retire, or die.  

How was it built? Look, I have no definitive answers here, and neither does anyone else. Were the stones magically transported by Merlin (the wizard of Arthurian legend) from Ireland – yes, magically - and put together by giants, as per the folklore? Did the Danes do it when they stormed into England uninvited? Was it constructed using pulleys and ropes and ye oldey lever things to hoick the stones up by the Romans? I want answers. 

In 2018, a man in the United States returned a piece of a core sample of one of the stones to England, that he had been holding on to for decades. Conventional wisdom and sciencey tests confirmed that the “geochemical fingerprint” (nerd alert, nerd alert!) on this core sample matched sandstone from all but two of the stones, to sandstone about 25 kilometres away! But more testing needs to take place. Of course it does. The ploteth thickeneth. 

All that is clear to me is that any self-respecting modern construction company would have their company emblem and ‘tough guy, build things’ slogan all over the stones had they built it. The scaffolding and surrounding construction site would be completely littered in their signage and livery and they would have charged an outrageous fee to move the giant stones from one county or country to the next. And we would not be left in the dark like this. Surely there are some old selfie photos in attics somewhere in England from 6,000 years ago that have a guy pushing a giant boulder through town in the background? Everyone check their attic please.

The builder of Stonehenge is a mystery. Look, there are no known knowns with this thing. Was it built by the druids (Celtic priests), aristocrats, chieftains, Merlin the wizard of Arthurian legend and his giants, the Romans, the Danes? Why did nobody take credit for it. 

Whoever built it left no records. Under modern Work Health & Safety Regulations, construction companies are required to erect a builder’s sign stating the builder and contact details at all building sites. If only they had this regulation 6,000 years ago we would have definitive answers. But maybe we all just love a bit of intrigue anyway. 

For scale - they are normal heighted people, not the alleged giants who built it under Arthurian folklore.