Through Gritted Teeth

In February this year we had some strange weather in the Upper Rhine Valley. Strong winds blew sands from the Sahara, from as far away Morocco, Algeria, Mauretania and Mali all the way to Switzerland, France and the south of Germany. It happens every few years.

As interesting as the effect was, I prefer not to breathe in my sand.

How about drinking it?

A few days ago somebody posted a photo of sand in a bottle and I commented on it and now I cant find anymore. Anyway – this is the bottle that I have, a lot less artistic. I filled this bottle myself 50 years ago with sands from Le sentier des ocres de Roussilon in the Luberon. It’s an old ocher pigment quarry in the South of France which was then open to anybody and one could just collect sand. Nowadays, there are fixed walkways and taking sands is strictly forbidden (and quite rightly so).

Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Sand or Dirt

I’m a Fan of Funny Street Names

Street names often are handed down for generations and the actual meanings are often lost in the process. And we are left with humourous names like these: In Switzerland (found in the middle of the Odenwald, where Switzerland is far away). Dragon’s Stone (no dragon have I ever seen there). Near the house painters (formerly a street where housepainters had set up buisness, possibly). Street of the heavenly spirits (near a church, I reckon, or possibly a distillery). In the butcher (literally: inside a butcher, not a butchery). Little Hare Alley or Little Bunny Lane (I didn’t find a Big Bunny Lane in this town). Bike House Lane (a play on words: written with a T [Rathaus] it would mean town hall, but there is actually a bike shop in this road),

I’m a fan of … #132