A Birthday Wish to Revisit a Short Walk . . .

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One of our tadpoles turned 13 this past weekend, and while thinking of wishes to make before blowing out her 13 candles, the 13 candles on a chocolate rasberry pie prepared with love by a certain Grenouille, she specifically asked me to put together a post about the hike we took to reach the top of the volcano on Réunion Island back in February. As one cannot refuse such requests, here first is the pie in question, followed by a short report on the climb up a volcano. I'm expecting National Geographic or Geo Magazine to contact me any day now. (that's a joke)
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If one wishes to visit le Piton de la Fournaise (Furnace Peak) and actually see any of it, one is advised to rise very early so as to reach the summit by mid-morning at the latest, as later in the day the heights of the volcano are nearly always covered in clouds. We therefore set the alarms for 04:00, dressed and breakfasted quickly, and then drove in the dark up the winding access road to the jumping off point. We got there right at dawn, in the rain, and were afraid the hike would have to scratched due to the fog and clouds obscuring all. But just after sunrise a clearing in the clouds opened up, though the peak was still hidden, which gave us enough hope to set out on the five to six hour hike . . .
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From an overlook point at the top of the rim of the vast caldera surrounding the active peak, we could see a small group of people who had set out before us, and were already starting to cross the plain toward the mountain. You can just make them out at the upper right. The crater in the foreground is a relatively small vent which was active back in the 1700's.
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This gives you a little better idea of the climb down the outer caldera rim to reach the plain which must be crossed before getting to the volcano itself. This was easy going down early in the morning, but it was coming back up this steep stretch at the end of the round trip hike that was a _______ ! (fill in your own expletive!)

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The fog and clouds kept descending, causing serious doubts as to whether we should continue. The guidebooks are full of warnings about not getting lost in the clouds on the expanse of plains around the peak, which go on for miles and miles, and which are extremely rugged and unforgiving terrain.

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In brief clearings the heights of our destination could just be glimpsed. To help prevent people from getting lost out there in the lava desert, a series of white spots have been painted on the ground. One should not stray away from them.
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The Piton de la Fournaise has erupted frequently over the past 150 years, producing humongous quantities of basaltic lava flows. The solidified molten rock is beautiful to look at, but makes for treacherous, exhausting walking, as there are almost no flat surfaces.
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A few sparse grasses grow in the wastelands . . .

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And a few small shrubs which somehow managed to seed themselves in this inhospitable place.
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Hard to imagine rock like this heated hot enough to flow like mud . . .
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There are some options for destinations up there, some side trips to take if one is feeling energetic and has the time . . .

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But we were headed for the main summit, the Dolomieu Crater. In the background here is the caldera rim, known as the Pas de Bellecombe.
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A lava flow that ran to the north side of the island, running off into the distance here under the low flying cloud cover.
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One better understands what "scorched earth" means after visiting such places.

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Not all is black though, volcanic rock comes in a multitude of colors.

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Now well up on the flanks of the peak, my three travelling companions took a break to put on sunscreen, a must at 2600 meters high, or over 8600 feet.
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When one at last reaches the summit on the rim around the active crater, there are signs like this advising one to avoid falling into that vast entrance to hell.

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This is the main crater, roughly circlular, which drops back down about 900 feet from the edges around it. And which is still steaming heavily from the last eruption which took place for ten days from 2 to 12 January, 2010. There is quite a bit more information about the volcano on this site in French, Fournaise.info . . .

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The bottom of the interior of the crater . . . quietly smoking, and waiting for the next eruption. The last major eruption in 2007 saw lava flowing down into the ocean, and created new territory on the island which got bigger in surface by quite a few acres.
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After the arduous hike back down the slopes, across the plain, up the outer rim, and back to the car, this is the view down the access road which we couldn't see when we drove up early that morning in the rain and fog. . . showers and dinner rarely felt so good afterwards . . .
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Grave Reflections . . .

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The following shots are from the same stolen afternoon out a few weeks ago now on which all the bright yellow rapeseed was photographed. Immediately adjacent to the glowing yellow fields, so bright with Spring life, I found a cemetery hidden there on the hillside. And as you know by now, I am not one to resist the siren call of the silence in such places, where one can quietly think grave thoughts.
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This first is the wall at the back of the graveyard which sides on the yellow fields . . . (and if you'd like to see a truly magical interpretation of some similarly yellow fields in Romania, just click here to transport yourself across a Floating Bridge of Dreams . . .
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The children's corner of some cemeteries is always particularly poignant. Leaves me feeling lucky to have survived as long as I have, and to consider each additional day a gift . . .
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A renegade pansy had somehow seeded itself in one of the paths through the place. A very deep purple . . .
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A detail of the above . . .
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I've never seen an "unknown soldier" tomb in a small villages cemetery before, this is a rare occurence. In some of the large national military cemeteries the "unknowns" abound, but in a tiny, civil cemetery, this is the first I've ever encountered. I wonder how he ended up here ? From which war ? Who was he ? And somewhere does someone yet grieve for him ?
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On another part of the outer wall there was a fading memorial from WWI . . .
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A close up of the face, before he's lost forever. Already the name is gone . . .
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Self Portrait . . .

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PS This was just before he spat at me . . . but don't you just love his black mascara ?
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Rhododendron Dreaming . . .

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It was over at Clytie's Random Nature page that I saw this weekend some lush and lovely rhododendron blooms apparently near an abandoned church. (Would like to see some shots of the abandoned church too; hint, hint . . . :-) ) And that reminded me that this time of year there is also a place near here where rhododendrons bloom in abundance, if one is lucky enough to know about it and determined enough to get there.
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Back in the 1800's there was a large chateau between Chantilly and Creil, to the north of Paris, which belonged to the Rothschild family. As with most chateaux worth their name, there were acres and acres of land around it. I'm not familiar with all the history, but the chateau was sold and has become a technical school, a large part of the grounds nearest the chateau has become a huge shopping center with multiple car dealers and a variety of large stores. But a stretch of woods remains still undevelopped today, which belonged to the chateau grounds long ago. And on that piece of land an enterprising gardener had planted a grand plot of rhododendrons around a small pond he'd created, the rhododendrons covered an entire hillside. Although totally abandoned for probably at least 75 years, the rhododendron garden is still there, and still blooms every Spring around this time.
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One just has to be willing to travel a ways to get to it. On past excursions I've bicycled there, but today we walked, round trip it was a three hour hike through the woods like this . . .
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But finally one is rewarded for one's efforts with the first towering shrubs, which as you can estimate from the scale of the people here, are perhaps 18 to 20 feet high . . .

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I can remember when I was little my parents would sometimes take us to go see rhododendrons blooming in the woods of the Swarthmore College campus in Pennsylvania. I didn't appreciate them at the time, woods were places for playing out make believe adventure stories, not for looking at boring flowers . . . What an ignorant little sod I was. It took many long years before I started to see the light, but now I'm a believer. A believer in beauty, natural beauty . . . I think the word my father used often was "Glorious", with an exclamation point.

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And speaking of fathers, I would like to draw your attention, if you can read French, to a particularly, stunningly even, beautiful tribute to his father which Jeff just posted today at Life Is Beautiful, after a brief absence. Although men don't typically send flowers to other men, Jeff, these are for you . . . a homage to the lovely photographic work you've been doing with the natural world of late, and to fathers who tried hard to show us some of the beauty around us . . .

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I crawled in underneath one large bush, more a tree than a shrub . . .
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An ancient rhododendron bush, having lived a long life and filled many seasons with luxurious purple blooms had come crashing down. Even in death and dessication a marvellously complex structure . . .

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This next is a slightly cropped detail of a larger image, which follows just after it. I rarely crop photos, or perform any other processing of the original images. Have barely scratched the surface of Photoshop. I guess I'd rather spend my time out looking for the mysteries in this world. Although I have considerable respect for those artists who have mastered the fine arts of enhancing and transforming digital images into magical affairs. I'm thinking of Roxana and Lynne, for example. So these next two are dedicated to you two . . . Blooms about to open . . . drenched in unbelievable violet hues from impossibly natural sources . . .
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Light Reflections . . .

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Do drop in at James' Newtown Area Photo for the Weekend Reflections series every week. It is becoming a regular virtual town meeting place for alot of folks from all over who love reflected images. And few do them better than James, he's got a real talent for spotting those odd moments when light does double duty.
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As for the below reflections, they were spotted in Albert, France a few months back, and have been waiting patiently to get on stage here. I wish I'd have been able to photograph Bob Marley other than in a holographic poster image in a storefront window. At least we still have his music to listen to. Sigh.
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Postcards From Distant Stars . . .

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How to describe the decibels of delight when a collection of postcards appeared in the postal snail mail the other day, depicting the works of two simply fabulous and faithful bloggers, day in and day out they each post a new photo, with stunning subject matter and texture and colors galore, everything one can drool over quietly when savoring fine photography. You've perhaps guessed by now that the postcards came from Loulou of Indiaphragme and Arnaud of Random Shots. If by any chance you haven't visited their blogs already, please do, and while there, take a moment to delve into the archives, for both have large numbers of beautiful photos going back over the past year and a half at least. Here is just a little sample of what came in the mail. . . Thanks Loulou ! Merci Arnaud ! Namasté !
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Potpourri . . . Smorgasbord . . . Cornucopia . . .

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I set out this afternoon, not knowing where the day would lead me. Sometimes it's best that way, just to set out, then follow signs, follow one's nose, follow one's heart. So, all aboard for Owencourt . . . where seeing is believing. If I may add, I'm going to mention a few other blogs in this post, and I just wish I could mention everyone's blog all at once, but there are too many excellent blogs out there. . . so if not this time, surely another . . .
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And was that a big neon O ? Wish I'd caught it lit up like a full moon, on the nights when the full moon wasn't . . . For more about neon, do take a look at the "Let There Be Neon" website, few do it better from what I gather. And if you get to their page, take a look at the Rudi Stern memoriam section there, as well as past posts about Rudi in the misty fogs of past posts here a the Magic Lantern . . .
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There are a large number of photos waiting in the wings to come on stage for their 24 hours in the spotlight before they get buried by more recent postings. There's so much there in the queue on many days I hardly know where to start. There are no instructions you know, this is what's known as flying by the seat of one's pants. If there were instructions on how to live and what to say or where to go on any given day, I lost them long ago, or they perhaps got rusted over, leaving a sign with no words on it . . .

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One figure who seems to spend most of his time just hanging out is also rusting, and isn't saying much these days . . .

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But one place I have been finding spiritual sustenance of late is right here in the blogosphere, for the simple reason being that there are some simply extraordinary folks out there, sailing on the blog sea, doing their thing, expressing themselves openly and honestly and passionately. Just one example, if I may, is Tom Bejgrowicz's Tom B. Photography blog which has recently gone dormant in favor of his new media project on the Tumblr site, which can be found here. If you have moment do take a look at both his blog archives, and the Tumblr adventure, they are both voyages into the surreal worlds of abandonment and decay. I humbly offer these next two photos taken today in homage to Tom, and in gratitude for all the inspiration. You could say his work really rings my bell . . .
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If you've been reading these pages for any length of time you have guessed by now that I'm somewhat drawn, for inexplicable reasons, to the history of World War One, which is still visible in these parts. Most every village or town or city in France has a monument to the people who died from their community, and they are all different. Here are a couple of statues spotted today . . .

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Another blogger I'd like tip my hat to is Laurie up north in England, whose blog (Creating Pictures In My Mind) and company have been a pleasure over the past year or more, as we both enjoy stepping into cemeteries from time to time and marvelling at the history in such places, as well as the peace and quiet, far from the madding crowd, if you will. So Laurie, here are a few from this afternoon just for you . . .

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This third one bears a message the likes of which I've never seen on a tombstone; to translate roughly it says : "Absolutely forbidden to place any objects or religious texts here." And what about non-religious texts ? On the heart shaped stone it does say, "For friendship between individuals and peoples".

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These irises were in the same graveyard, and if I may I'd like to dedicate them to Clo whose blog Photos Sans Cibles just blows me away every time she does a new post.

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As for a very slightly photoshopped version of the same flowers seen today, this one is for Lynne at Décolleté Glimpses, who has developped a bit of an afinity for Photoshop, and is doing some heartwarming work . . .

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This pile of freshly cut stone was waiting to be put in place in the new facade of the Basilica in Saint Quentin, an enormous structure which seems to be getting a large scale makeover. I dedicate this to the master stonecarver who is the other half at Spit & Baling Wire, whose sheer spirit and inimitable style are unique in the realm of blogging.
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Another blog which I somehow stumbled on at least a year ago and have been following avidly ever since belongs to Amy, with the lovely name : Of Heliotropes and Silver Strings. Well, Amy, did you know there is a village in France named after you ? I found it today . . .

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Amy did a couple of posts in the past few days about a small carnaval that set up shop near where she is. This shot below wasn't in Amy, but it wasn't far away . . .

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In a comment this evening over on the Floating Bridge of Dreams, Roxana's magical art and poetry gallery, I mentioned to her that I'd seen a bar today named the Black Angel. Here is the proof. Anyone up for a little drink and a chat?

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As for you Bob, well, you know who you are, but I have no link to link here, other than that of unforgettable friendship over the years, and this very afternoon, I finally found a great place over here in France for us to go have a drink as soon as you get here, heck, it's only been what, seventeen years ? Eighteen soon ? Welcome to Chez Bob !

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If anyone is curious about Bob, who is a damn fine painter as well as an all around wild and crazy guy, there have been some past posts here that you could take a gander at if I haven't already worn out your linking patience . . .

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