larifroot.bsky.social
Multifunctional liberalist
96 posts
24 followers
22 following
Regular Contributor
Active Commenter
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All part of the slop, I'm afraid.
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Quite a bit, by the sounds of it! There's also some nice canal remains - mostly a wharf - near Llanymynech too. Essentially it was a quarry, kiln, transportation operation.
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It's slap bang on the border. About 3 miles from Oswestry and the A5. So if you are travelling into Wales via the A5 it's not much of a diversion to visit. Also the nearby, disused quarry that supplied the kiln is massive, well worth wandering around. It's a Site of Special Scientific Interest.
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Hoffman kiln. There's one up the road from me at Llanymynech, well worth a visit.
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What happens to a football club when all they have left is the brand? Grandiosity amidst the drek.
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Hopefully, out of the disappointment of Mr Squiddy not being a suitable candidate for bronze, my bookmarks will be.
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Hope to have bronze things soon!
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Rest is sharpening your sword. It helps you become more effective, not less.
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In Welsh family means a "force". Llu. So Heddllu - Welsh for police is "peace force". Hedd meaning peace in Welsh. A family is tŷllu. "House force."
May you find your llu and run together at those bloody walls. Give it hwyl!
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Anyways, Darcey, if I may be so bold, how are you? Apart from exhausted - although exhaustion tends to be all consuming.
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Grit, unlike irony, is a physical law restricted to those who bloody well refuse to give up.
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Very good! See that cricket ball sailing over the pavilion? That's Gillie reaching her century.
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Friend of mine took her mum to Glastonbury on a bustling Saturday afternoon. "Oh look!" her mum cheerily exclaimed "everyone's in fancy dress!"
I love those two women.
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The satisfaction!
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Let's see if the stone his headstone will be made of holds up well against a constant assault of uric acid.
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Very Robespierre in that logic. He ended up in the device he sent countless others to. The guillotine.
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A pleasure. Mr Mikes take on the typical British advert. "Bumpex fruit juice. Most people detest it. But you might be the exception."
In a culture where boasting is loathed, how do you advertise?
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'How to be an Alien' by George Mikes is an excellent primer on British quirks and mannerisms.
He told his English girlfriend that he was nervous about introducing a foreign girlfriend to his Hungarian mother. She burst out laughing. "But I'm English" she explained "you're the foreigner!" 🤪
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"The continentals have sex lives. The British have hot water bottles." George Mikes.
Also
"An Englishman, when alone, will form an orderly queue of one." Again, George Mikes.
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I so wish I was wufty-tufty, but my being is resolutely fey. My soul is genetically spliced with a chaise lounge and my feet long for mukluks. Being stuck in a British winter simply feels wrong.
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Maybe one day in the next couple of months my feet will warm up again.
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On my 50th birthday my FB timeline flooded (pun deliberate) with ads for male incontinence products. Nothing says "happy birthday" quite like a promotional deal for pee pads. Rather took the shine off things.
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When I saw that I recalled the last words attributed to the Emperor Claudius (in Robert Graves' 'Claudius the God').
"Signs enough, soothsayers?"
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I don't mean to vegetable shame anyone. But every time I see him, I'm reminded of a cold, overboiled potato. Devoid of nutrients and flavour, held together by its own blandness and the surrounding air pressure. There is presence with no substance, as if he is haunting his own life.
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Also, the same can be said for him as a mammal.
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Christina was firmly against using a wheelchair (she had a degenerative muscular disease) and preferred to crawl through her world. Possibly because she could access places her wheelchair could not. It's such a visceral image of turning back home.
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I concur. Even though my art and design needs and uses are different from yours, the space feels swamped by AI images crowding out the stuff I need.
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There is a profound difference between a patriot and a nationalist. The nationalist will hide behind the fig leaf of patriotism whilst undermining the country they profess to love. This is when "patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel."
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Unsurprisingly, Marged's legendary actions have been the subject of many local songs and legends and she was also included in Thomas Pennant's 1780's travelogue, 'Tours in Wales'. Marged was buried in Llanddeiniolen on 24 January 1793.
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On one occasion she threw a passenger into the lake over a disagreement over the fare and only hauled him back in on his agreement to pay her a guinea...
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...It is said that she once clobbered her husband to such an extent that he gave up drink and became a Methodist.
Marged and Richard later moved to Nant Peris, where she built a boat to ferry miners to their work across Llyn Peris and Llyn Padarn, earning her the name 'Queen of the Lakes'.
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...She could shoe horses and also made harps which she would play to entertain her customers.
Marged was an imposing woman, at over six feet tall with hands like shovels. She took on wrestling challenges well into her seventies, beating men much younger than herself.
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The romanticisation of someone else's pain has to be one of the most grotesque activities imaginable.
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Using religion to indulge your personal hatred reveals something very, very wrong in there.