We visited the falls in winter, just after Christmas when it was all but frozen.
The weather was freezing, it was snowing, and very icy to walk anywhere near the falls
Getting photos is a matter of how much you want to risk your safety.
I know I slipped and fell a number of times on the ice just below the snowy surface in pursuit of the perfect photograph. Alas, I don’t think I succeeded.
The mist was generated from both the waterfall and the low cloud. It was impossible not to get wet just watching the falls.
Of course, unlike the braver people, you could not get me into one of the boats that headed towards the falls. I suspect there might be icebergs and wasn’t going to tempt the fate of another Titanic, even on a lesser scale. The water would be freezing.
Our view of life, love, relationships, and marriage come from our own experiences. This is basically the same for all of us for everything that happens to us through life, as young children, at school, at work, at leisure, and, as we grow as a person.
Our ideas about life will come from the experiences of having our children, watching over our children as they grow up, from our relatives, both our own and those acquired by marriage or relationships, and from our friends.
No two life experiences will be exactly the same. There will be similarities but differences which may or may not give us a different perspective, whether that might be for the better or for the worse. Not everything that will happen to us will be good, or bad, but just an experience that we will remember or forget, take notice of or ignore, helps us grow, or cause us pain.
There will be the experiences we have when interaction with others that are outside our family sphere but haling an influence on us directly or indirectly, like politicians, doctors, government officials, and police. There will also be experiences involving those at work that we interact with in a professional manner, and others, who have influence in ways that sometimes can be unimaginable.
These interactions will influence our feelings, thoughts, and how we react and behave, the highs and lows of having children and grandchildren, interactions with aunts, uncles, our parents. Equally there will be moments of despair, of losing a job or missing out on a promotion, of dealing with people in the workplace that make life difficult, dealing with relatives who are not very nice, in short all of those interactions with all these people around you, and more.
Yes, your life is steered by all of these influences, and your views are often coloured by any or all of these people. They make up the sum of who you are, who you will be, and what you want to be. Those dreams will seem, sometimes, within your grasp, but quite often they will seem as far from your grasp as touching the moon.
But all of this, while it makes up who you are, will also make up who your characters are in a story.
They will be people you know, people you’ve met, people you’ve interacted with, people you’ve seen.
Over a series of posts I’ll try to describe some of my influences, and then refine them into the characters and locations of my stories.
Televison is a great recorder of the past, and most channels, and especially cable tv have great libraries of films that go back more than a hundred years.
And, whilst it’s possible that modern day films and television series can try to recapture the past, the English as an exception being very good at it, often it is impossible to capture it correctly.
But, if you have a film shot in the moment, then you have a visual record of what life, and what was once part of our world before you in all it’s dated glory. The pity of it is that, then, we never appreciated it.
After all, in those particular times, who had the time to figuratively stop and smell the roses. Back then as life was going on, we were all tied up with just trying to get through each day.
Years later, often on reflection, we try to remember the old days, and, maybe, remember some of what it was like, but the chances are that change came far too rapidly, and often too radical, that it erases what we thought we knew existed before.
My grandmothers house is a case in point. In it’s place is a multi lane super highway, and there’s nothing left to remind us, or anyone of it, just some old sepia photographs.
I was reminded of how volatile history really is when watching an old documentary, in black and white, and how the city I grew up in used to look.
Then, even though it seemed large to me then, it was a smaller city, with suburbs that stretched about ten or so miles in every direction, and the outer suburbs were where people moved to get a larger block, and countrified atmosphere.
Now, those outer suburbs are no longer spacious properties, the acreage subdivided and the old owners now much richer for a decision made with profit not being the motivator, and the current suburban sprawl is now out to forty or fifty miles.
The reason for the distance is no longer the thought of open spaces and cleaner air, the reason for moving now is that land further out is cheaper, and can make buying that first house more affordable.
This is where I tip my hat to the writers of historical fiction. I myself am writing a story based in the 1970s, and its difficult to find what is and isn’t time specific.
If only I had a dollar for every time I went to write the character pulling out his or her mobile phone.
What I’ve found is the necessity to research, and this has amounted to finding old films, documentaries of the day, and a more fascinating source of information, the newspapers of the day.
The latter especially has provoked a lot of memories and a lot of stuff I thought I’d forgotten, some of it by choice, but others that were poignant.
Yes, and don’t get me started on the distractions.
Televison is a great recorder of the past, and most channels, and especially cable tv have great libraries of films that go back more than a hundred years.
And, whilst it’s possible that modern day films and television series can try to recapture the past, the English as an exception being very good at it, often it is impossible to capture it correctly.
But, if you have a film shot in the moment, then you have a visual record of what life, and what was once part of our world before you in all it’s dated glory. The pity of it is that, then, we never appreciated it.
After all, in those particular times, who had the time to figuratively stop and smell the roses. Back then as life was going on, we were all tied up with just trying to get through each day.
Years later, often on reflection, we try to remember the old days, and, maybe, remember some of what it was like, but the chances are that change came far too rapidly, and often too radical, that it erases what we thought we knew existed before.
My grandmothers house is a case in point. In it’s place is a multi lane super highway, and there’s nothing left to remind us, or anyone of it, just some old sepia photographs.
I was reminded of how volatile history really is when watching an old documentary, in black and white, and how the city I grew up in used to look.
Then, even though it seemed large to me then, it was a smaller city, with suburbs that stretched about ten or so miles in every direction, and the outer suburbs were where people moved to get a larger block, and countrified atmosphere.
Now, those outer suburbs are no longer spacious properties, the acreage subdivided and the old owners now much richer for a decision made with profit not being the motivator, and the current suburban sprawl is now out to forty or fifty miles.
The reason for the distance is no longer the thought of open spaces and cleaner air, the reason for moving now is that land further out is cheaper, and can make buying that first house more affordable.
This is where I tip my hat to the writers of historical fiction. I myself am writing a story based in the 1970s, and its difficult to find what is and isn’t time specific.
If only I had a dollar for every time I went to write the character pulling out his or her mobile phone.
What I’ve found is the necessity to research, and this has amounted to finding old films, documentaries of the day, and a more fascinating source of information, the newspapers of the day.
The latter especially has provoked a lot of memories and a lot of stuff I thought I’d forgotten, some of it by choice, but others that were poignant.
Yes, and don’t get me started on the distractions.
A fine day, on this trip a rarity, we decided to take the train to Windsor and see the castle.
This is a real castle, and still in one piece, unlike a lot of castles.
Were we hoping to see the Queen, no, it was highly unlikely.
But there were a lot of planes flying overhead into Heathrow. The wind must have been blowing the wrong day, and I’m sure, with one passing over every few minutes, it must annoy the Queen if she was looking for peace and quiet.
Good thing then, when it was built, it was an ideal spot, and not under the landing path. I guess it was hard to predict what would happen 500 years in the future!
I’m not sure if this was the front gate or back gate, but I was wary of any stray arrows coming out of those slits either side of the entrance.
You just never know!
An excellent lawn for croquet. This, I think, is the doorway, on the left, where dignitaries arrive by car. The private apartments are across the back.
The visitor’s apartments. Not sure who that is on the horse.
St George’s Chapel. It’s a magnificent church for a private castle. It’s been very busy the last few months with Royal weddings.
The Round Tower, or the Keep. It is the castle’s centerpiece. Below it is the gardens.
Those stairs are not for the faint-hearted, nor the Queen I suspect. But I think quite a few royal children and their friends have been up and down them a few times.
A fine day, on this trip a rarity, we decided to take the train to Windsor and see the castle.
This is a real castle, and still in one piece, unlike a lot of castles.
Were we hoping to see the Queen, no, it was highly unlikely.
But there were a lot of planes flying overhead into Heathrow. The wind must have been blowing the wrong day, and I’m sure, with one passing over every few minutes, it must annoy the Queen if she was looking for peace and quiet.
Good thing then, when it was built, it was an ideal spot, and not under the landing path. I guess it was hard to predict what would happen 500 years in the future!
I’m not sure if this was the front gate or back gate, but I was wary of any stray arrows coming out of those slits either side of the entrance.
You just never know!
An excellent lawn for croquet. This, I think, is the doorway, on the left, where dignitaries arrive by car. The private apartments are across the back.
The visitor’s apartments. Not sure who that is on the horse.
St George’s Chapel. It’s a magnificent church for a private castle. It’s been very busy the last few months with Royal weddings.
The Round Tower, or the Keep. It is the castle’s centerpiece. Below it is the gardens.
Those stairs are not for the faint-hearted, nor the Queen I suspect. But I think quite a few royal children and their friends have been up and down them a few times.
Yet another photograph in what is a series, pushes the story along
It’s a reminder of a past that I have only seen in old movies, which to me, adds a great deal of importance to the preservation of any material that gives us a sense of what it was like many years ago.
It doesn’t mean that what we see happened, because films, like stories, are sometimes based on some fact but the majority of it is fictional padding, adding a picture of how it might have been.
To find out what really happened, it is possible to find archived newspapers and municiple documents going back a long time, quite often the fodder for many history books.
This is how we think the wild west was, at times quite a dangerous place to be. But, in the main, it was probably a lot more mundane, just trying to make a living off the land, the battling kthe vagaries of weather, fighting off all manner of hazards, both predators and human, or trying to eventually eke out a living after a gold strike brought thousands of would be prospectors.
Towns came and went, mines came and went, each leaving the ghosts of their people and buildings behind.
As for my story, it’s probably going to be an amalgum of everything I’ve read or seen, but with my own spin.
So, the story so far – Our hero is away of a driving tour and had come to a covered bridge.
The thought that it might be a portal does cross his mind, but not being a believer, crosses it. Then, after a few miles comes across what seems to be a deserted, or ghost, town. But, it’s not deserted, the car’s gone and in its place, a horse.
…
I woke up in unfamiliar surroundings.
I didn’t remember going to sleep, which, for a moment, was a worry.
It was not a bed I was lying on. It was hard, like a wooden plank, and, looking up, the roofwas very high above. A cathedral ceiling.
A church?
I dragged myself up into a sitting position and looked around. It is a church. A very old church made completely out of timber. The sort of church one might find in an old town.
“Ah, you’re awake?” A voice came from behind me, the sort I instantly reminded of a priest.
I turned. A man that had the requisite collar and shirt, but not your typical priest.
“Where am I?”
“Church. Fergus thought you’d died of fright. Have to say I though that to, but Doc reckons you’re tired from a long ride. Where you from?”
I was going to say from New York, but I wasn’t sure what was going onso I held that thought and just said, “Back east.”
“Running from what?”
Was everyone who landed on their doorstep running from something? At least I wasn’t dressed in a suit, just a flannel shirt and jeans, with sturdy hiking boots. They were the only item of my apparel that could be out of place in this setting.
“A woman. She picked another man, one I thought was a friend.”
It was as close to the truth I’d get. There was a woman, it was just she didn’t like me as much as I did her. The both of us couldn’t stay, so I quit and left.
“Well, it’s too late to go on, the hotel’s out the door and a hundred yards straight ahead. Tommy’s taken your horse to the livery stable.”
My interview was over.
“I’ll see you at the service in the morning.”
Odd, when I walked out the church door, the scene had changed from what I last remembered. On dusk, there were lights, and people. Not many, but just enough to give the town an air of reality.
Until I saw two women walk past, in traditional 1860’s dresses and bonnets.
This had to be an historical town that went that extra mile for reality. It had to be.
Because despite all the self warnings, and trepidation…
…I crossed that bridge and found this:
Yes, we went back in time, and when I pulled over, and got out of the car the first thing that crossed my mind, I was either in an old gold mining town, or it was a mid way settlement to somewhere else.
Of course, it was deserted.
So, next thought was that this was a ghost town. But, the fact it’s late in the afternoon and everything looks as though it’s locked up, this might also quite easily be a tourist attraction, done for the day.
But, it was off the main road, down a track that led to what I thought might have been a settlement.
I go for a walk and look at some of the buildings. They have been kept in good order, but are showing signs of age, and no sign of modernisation.
Does this mean I’ve gone back in time?
“Hey?”
I hear a voice behind me, that of a man, and turn around.
He’s about 80 wearing well worn clothes and a raggedy beard, wrinkled eyes and leathery skin. A miner? A cowboy? Someone who lived here, like perhaps the last remaining resident.
“Who are you?” he askes stopping about 20 feet away. He looks annoyed, or maybe that was his perpetual angry face.
“A visitor?”
“From?”
“Back east.”
A knowing look crosses his face. “City slicker eh?”
Language right out of an old Hollywood western. Any minute now I might see John Wayne or a troop of Union soldiers.
“Perhaps.” I had no idea why I used the expression, back east.
“Then you’d better go back. No place for the likes of people like you. Last fellow that came from the city got run out of town.”
Friendly town then. A sideways glance showed movement, and another man along side one of the buildings, with a rifle, pointed straight at me.
“I guess I’m not welcome. I’m leaving. You might tell that to the man with the gun on me.”
“He knows.”
I turned, and walked slowly and steadily back to where I thought I left the car. Instead there was a saddled horse tied to a fence.
