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The Mount.
- Thread starter lee48
- Start date
-
- Tags
- black and white
Phoenix
All-Pro
- Location
- Melbourne, Australia
- Name
- Phoenix Gonzales
Great shot, whereabouts is this?
Thanks Phoenix it's St Michaels Mount Cornwall.
Mike G
All-Pro
- Location
- West London
- Name
- Mike Gorman
Been passed that many times on the local green buses! I used to be stationed at HMS Seahawk for a few years and lived in Helston when married.
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Mike G
All-Pro
- Location
- West London
- Name
- Mike Gorman
There is an almost identical French version called Mont Saint Michel!
Phoenix
All-Pro
- Location
- Melbourne, Australia
- Name
- Phoenix Gonzales
I've added this to my "must visit list".
Lightmancer
Legend
- Location
- Sunny Frimley
- Name
- Bill Palmer
When my son was little we spent many happy summers in Cornwall. We visited the Mount once. Sadly it is pickled in aspic by the National Trust. I had a "debate" with a crusty volunteer on arrival. He was all cavalry twills, Tattersall check shirt and blue blazer with an evangelical glint in his eye and a slightly off-kilter moustache. The conversation went something like this.
"Would you like to join the National Trust today?"
"Not in a million years."
"Whyever not?!" One eyebrow beetled skyward as Mr. Blazer regarded me with a rheumy eye that had faced down many an unpatriotic communist in Malaya - or possibly Aden.
"Because you are a political organisation that squanders the nation's heritage and you do not allow photography inside the properties you are supposedly holding in trust for the nation."
"Security! If we allowed just anyone to take photos they might be villains - yes, villains! Photographing precious works of art so that they can later be stolen to order. The swine!" The beetling eyebrow had now taken on a life of it's own and was doing a nervous samba near where Blazer's hairline used to be in 1952.
"Why should they bother, when you sell postcards and slides of those self-same works of art in your gift shops at exorbitant prices...?"
Blazer's forehead had by this point turned an alarming shade of cerise. I had kept walking up the hill whilst talking and had left Blazer's small but pin neat trestle table full of ballpoint pens and membership forms, held in place by a small snowglobe featuring the Mount itself, far behind. He actually pursued me for a distance up the hill, remonstrating with my back, spittle flying alarmingly in all directions. His eyebrow had by now packed it's eyebags and was contemplating a vacation to a nice craggy French fisherman's face the other side of the Channel at Mont St. Michel.
My wife disowned me, for being a curmudgeon. This was a frequent occurance and no doubt a contributory factor to her being one of the ex- Mrs Palmers. My son wondered what all the fuss was about then pointed at a seagull and cried delightedly
"Look! A George!"
This was due to the fact that I had told him all seagulls were named "George"
George Seagull.
Geddit?
I was a bit of an arse in those days...
"Would you like to join the National Trust today?"
"Not in a million years."
"Whyever not?!" One eyebrow beetled skyward as Mr. Blazer regarded me with a rheumy eye that had faced down many an unpatriotic communist in Malaya - or possibly Aden.
"Because you are a political organisation that squanders the nation's heritage and you do not allow photography inside the properties you are supposedly holding in trust for the nation."
"Security! If we allowed just anyone to take photos they might be villains - yes, villains! Photographing precious works of art so that they can later be stolen to order. The swine!" The beetling eyebrow had now taken on a life of it's own and was doing a nervous samba near where Blazer's hairline used to be in 1952.
"Why should they bother, when you sell postcards and slides of those self-same works of art in your gift shops at exorbitant prices...?"
Blazer's forehead had by this point turned an alarming shade of cerise. I had kept walking up the hill whilst talking and had left Blazer's small but pin neat trestle table full of ballpoint pens and membership forms, held in place by a small snowglobe featuring the Mount itself, far behind. He actually pursued me for a distance up the hill, remonstrating with my back, spittle flying alarmingly in all directions. His eyebrow had by now packed it's eyebags and was contemplating a vacation to a nice craggy French fisherman's face the other side of the Channel at Mont St. Michel.
My wife disowned me, for being a curmudgeon. This was a frequent occurance and no doubt a contributory factor to her being one of the ex- Mrs Palmers. My son wondered what all the fuss was about then pointed at a seagull and cried delightedly
"Look! A George!"
This was due to the fact that I had told him all seagulls were named "George"
George Seagull.
Geddit?
I was a bit of an arse in those days...
Phoenix
All-Pro
- Location
- Melbourne, Australia
- Name
- Phoenix Gonzales
When my son was little we spent many happy summers in Cornwall. We visited the Mount once. Sadly it is pickled in aspic by the National Trust. I had a "debate" with a crusty volunteer on arrival. He was all cavalry twills, Tattersall check shirt and blue blazer with an evangelical glint in his eye and a slightly off-kilter moustache. The conversation went something like this.
"Would you like to join the National Trust today?"
"Not in a million years."
"Whyever not?!" One eyebrow beetled skyward as Mr. Blazer regarded me with a rheumy eye that had faced down many an unpatriotic communist in Malaya - or possibly Aden.
"Because you are a political organisation that squanders the nation's heritage and you do not allow photography inside the properties you are supposedly holding in trust for the nation."
"Security! If we allowed just anyone to take photos they might be villains - yes, villains! Photographing precious works of art so that they can later be stolen to order. The swine!" The beetling eyebrow had now taken on a life of it's own and was doing a nervous samba near where Blazer's hairline used to be in 1952.
"Why should they bother, when you sell postcards and slides of those self-same works of art in your gift shops at exorbitant prices...?"
Blazer's forehead had by this point turned an alarming shade of cerise. I had kept walking up the hill whilst talking and had left Blazer's small but pin neat trestle table full of ballpoint pens and membership forms, held in place by a small snowglobe featuring the Mount itself, far behind. He actually pursued me for a distance up the hill, remonstrating with my back, spittle flying alarmingly in all directions. His eyebrow had by now packed it's eyebags and was contemplating a vacation to a nice craggy French fisherman's face the other side of the Channel at Mont St. Michel.
My wife disowned me, for being a curmudgeon. This was a frequent occurance and no doubt a contributory factor to her being one of the ex- Mrs Palmers. My son wondered what all the fuss was about then pointed at a seagull and cried delightedly
"Look! A George!"
This was due to the fact that I had told him all seagulls were named "George"
George Seagull.
Geddit?
I was a bit of an arse in those days...
When my son was little we spent many happy summers in Cornwall. We visited the Mount once. Sadly it is pickled in aspic by the National Trust. I had a "debate" with a crusty volunteer on arrival. He was all cavalry twills, Tattersall check shirt and blue blazer with an evangelical glint in his eye and a slightly off-kilter moustache. The conversation went something like this.
"Would you like to join the National Trust today?"
"Not in a million years."
"Whyever not?!" One eyebrow beetled skyward as Mr. Blazer regarded me with a rheumy eye that had faced down many an unpatriotic communist in Malaya - or possibly Aden.
"Because you are a political organisation that squanders the nation's heritage and you do not allow photography inside the properties you are supposedly holding in trust for the nation."
"Security! If we allowed just anyone to take photos they might be villains - yes, villains! Photographing precious works of art so that they can later be stolen to order. The swine!" The beetling eyebrow had now taken on a life of it's own and was doing a nervous samba near where Blazer's hairline used to be in 1952.
"Why should they bother, when you sell postcards and slides of those self-same works of art in your gift shops at exorbitant prices...?"
Blazer's forehead had by this point turned an alarming shade of cerise. I had kept walking up the hill whilst talking and had left Blazer's small but pin neat trestle table full of ballpoint pens and membership forms, held in place by a small snowglobe featuring the Mount itself, far behind. He actually pursued me for a distance up the hill, remonstrating with my back, spittle flying alarmingly in all directions. His eyebrow had by now packed it's eyebags and was contemplating a vacation to a nice craggy French fisherman's face the other side of the Channel at Mont St. Michel.
My wife disowned me, for being a curmudgeon. This was a frequent occurance and no doubt a contributory factor to her being one of the ex- Mrs Palmers. My son wondered what all the fuss was about then pointed at a seagull and cried delightedly
"Look! A George!"
This was due to the fact that I had told him all seagulls were named "George"
George Seagull.
Geddit?
I was a bit of an arse in those days...
Phoenix
All-Pro
- Location
- Melbourne, Australia
- Name
- Phoenix Gonzales
Sorry, this is probably getting further and further from the original image. I just find this article somewhat relevant with the previous replies
JoeLopez
Veteran
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