North Yorkshire Railway

Haworth, England, has not changed a lot since the Brontes lived there.



But if you'd rather ignore the Bronte trail, you can just watch the steam trains.

Streetlife, Venice

It's hard to take a bad picture in Venice. Here are a few glimpses of workaday Venetians from our 2004 trip.


The pigeon-chow vendor, Piazza San Marco. I love the draped muslin sunblinds, behind which is a famed cafe once frequented by revolutionaries. Meanwhile the pigeons get fat and fatter, and bolder.



The waiter, near the Doge's Palace. I think this cafe had the most expensive sandwich and sparkling water I have ever consumed. But it was worth it, what ambiance! The shade, not to mention a place to sit, was welcome after trudging miles around the hot cobblestone alleys.

Of course, streetlife in Venice also means canal life.


The deliverymen. Not such a bad job!



Gondolier on a mobilephone break. Everyone with any sense was taking a siesta.



I don't know what these guys were doing but they were up early and rattling around in a backwater canal. There's something ineffable about being a tourist in a fantastically beautiful spot while the people who live there just go about their business.



Siesta's over, and the gondoliers queue up to cart off tourists.

Venetian Blind

Well, until our next trip (possibly to Germany this summer) I am stuck in the States, so figured I would just put forward a few choice scenes from previous trips, not unlike my other site, Eff-StopLocal, with a bit of blather about them.

So, this shot is from Venice, summer 2004. I have the requisite number of typical Venice shots of canals and gondoliers and pigeons. But some of the most pleasant memories (they're all pleasant actually) have to do with rising at the crack of dawn and wandering the deserted and silent alleyways (calles). Most of the windows in the blocks of flats and palaces had these heavy shutters over the windows to keep out the cold in the evening and the heat in the day.

Eventually we would find a cafe and grab a cup of espresso and a pastry, and pick up some focaccia for the kids who we'd left asleep in the flat. The smell of the canal, our sandals whacking the cobbles. The rattle of corrugated iron shopfront gates being raised.