Why Evolution is True is a blog written by Jerry Coyne, centered on evolution and biology but also dealing with diverse topics like politics, culture, and cats.
Today we have photos of New Zealand by Kiwi reader Keith Cook. Keith’s notes and captions are indented, and you can enlarge the photos by clicking on them.
First is a home shot (Auckland) to get started and the rest are from a winter holiday (South. Is) New Zealand.
Sunrise. this is a shot of the sun rising at its most southern point (taken from home) or is that the southern hemisphere’s most northern point by the tilt of Earth? Anyway, this is the height of summer for us.
Misty river. This was taken like the following from the TranzAlpine heading towards Greymouth from Christchurch. A rail trip from the east to the west coast through the Southern Alps and we chose to come back on the same day. Being a lover of railways I enjoyed every moment of it. I took this shot from an open observation carriage. This shot is the north facing side of the carriage, the rail line and Wiamakariki river are flanked by a gorge.
South Island Bush. Taken facing south after dropping down to sea level from Arthur’s Pass I believe the forest here to be, Dept. of Conservation (DOC): “Dacrycarpus dacrydioides, commonly known as kahikatea and white pine, is a coniferous tree endemic to New Zealand. A podocarp, it is New Zealand’s tallest tree, gaining heights of 60 m over a life span of 600 years.” I wouldn’t be surprised if Kauri, Agathis australis were in the shot but I can’t tell for sure.
Hillside Moon, Snow covered hills, Hillside snow cap. These are taken from the highway leading up to the Lindis Pass. A lovely scenic tour through central Otago heading north.
A restored Chinese miners hut. DOC: “In 1866 fewer than 200 Chinese miners lived in Otago, but Census figures for 1874 show that there were 3564 Chinese in Otago, and most were working on the goldfields. Often victims of harassment and discrimination, they lived on the fringes of European settlements in isolated gullies close to their mining claims.”
Arrowtown, Otago a quaint little town and tourist spot.It wasn’t all about the scenery but I wouldn’t have minded either way, the South Island was empty of all international tourist and to some extent, locals. No buses, no campervans, minimal traffic. We were the tourist! It is winter as you can see and we had just come out of 4 weeks of Covid 19 lock down. My wife and I were supposed to be in the UK visiting our daughter but this was a pretty good alternative…
Arotaki Mt Cook. Our highest peak, and it was just a beautiful day and to finally see this mountain up close and ‘live’ was a real treat.
Hillside Moon, Snow covered hills, Hillside snow cap. These are taken from the highway leading up to the Lindis Pass. A lovely scenic tour through central Otago heading north.
JAC: Here are two maps of the South Island; I’ve noted spots mentioned. “Otago” is a region of the South Island, extending from Queenstown to Dunedin:
Today we have part 3 of Tony Eales’s safari to Botswana (see parts 1 and 2 here and here, and we have one more to go: from Victoria Falls). Tony’s captions are indented, and you can enlarge his photos by clicking on them.
Safari Part III
Ok, enough elephants and hippos. We all know what WEIT fans are here for: cats and owls.
The first cats were ones that worked at the Sedia Riverside Hotel. One specialised in breakfast clean up, the other in small bird control.
But of course, what you go to Africa for are the big cats. and the first and most wonderful we saw was an adult female leopard (Panthera pardus):
We found out about her position from another safari car and when we got to her position there were at least half a dozen other cars all trying to get a position to see her. She had taken an impala kill into a thick bush and was eating part of it:
When she had had her fill, she came out and lay in the grass and cleaned herself. We were a bit annoyed with one particular safari company that had many cars there and seemed to be coming in far too close and blocking other peoples’ views. Despite all this the leopard acted as if the cars didn’t exist only occasionally looking up briefly when a car restarted its engine. All the cats, leopards and lions, that we saw treated the cars as beneath their concern, unworthy of any attention:
We got the story from some other guides that they believed that this leopard had cubs hidden somewhere. Because our camp was very close by we were able to stay after all the other cars had left and got some great views before she wandered off after sunset, presumably to see her cubs or get water.
The next day we came back early and saw a hyena, presumably attracted by the kill, run off. we went to the thicket but the impala was gone. Then we heard jackals yelping nearby:
We followed their gaze and found the female eating again, this time in high grass. As more cars turned up we decided to head off:
We came back in the afternoon and found a different scene. Now the adult female was laying out on a high mound near a tree. And in that tree was a young male:
The story we gleaned from others was that this male was her cub from last year. He had come to participate in the meal and she had chased him up the tree. He was no longer going to get handouts now that she had new cub. If he moved at all she growled and ran at the tree climbing halfway up the trunk to keep him in place. It was hard not to anthropomorphise his expression as confused and sad as he watched her with fixed gaze as she eventually wandered off:
The next cats we saw was a small pride of lions (Panthera leo), a female, two young male brothers and two cubs. we were the first to spot them and got wonderful views of them playing and interacting:
In the end we saw approximately 30 lions in the trip both in Momei and Chobe and I can’t put up all the shots I got this nice one of a young male in Chobe:
Today we feature another travel/historical/picture contribution from Athayde Tonhasca Júnior. His captions are indented, and you can enlarge the photos by clicking on them.
Macedonian treasures
Macedonia, in northern Greece, is the descendant of the Kingdom of Macedon of Alexander the Great fame, and not to be confused with Northern Macedonia, the independent country resulting from the dissolution of Yugoslavia. The young country’s choice of ‘Macedonia’ for its name caused a 25-year kerfuffle with Greece, which is still bitter about it (source of the images in parentheses).
Some of the 266 fragments of the Derveni Papyrus, the oldest European ‘book’ and one of the documents in the UNESCO’s ‘Memory of the World’ Programme. The papyrus roll from the 3rd-4th c. BC was found carbonized among the remains of a funeral pyre in northern Greece. The text, read with special photographic techniques, consists mainly of an allegorical-philosophical interpretation of a poem ascribed to the mythical poet Orpheus. One of the lines read: Zeus is the hea[d], Zeus the mid[dle], and from Zeus all things are ma[de], which unsurprisingly resonates with the idea of a Grand Poobah from the Abrahamic religions. Most modern myths such as the Flood, Immaculate Conception, Chosen People, Garden of Eden, Hell, are not original – the Ancient Pagans thought of them first. (Thessaloniki’s Archaeological Museum, AM):
A bill of sale from 3rd c. AD.: Titos, son of Lykos, buys from Amphotera a two-month old slave girl. The girl’s name is Nike. The price is set at 15 silver pieces. Slavery was a fact of life for the Greek city states and every other ancient civilisation. (AM):
JAC: I’ve highlighted Nike’s name
Aphrodite, or Venus for the Romans. Her family tree was unusual even for the imaginative Greeks: she was born from the white foam produced by the severed genitals of Uranus (Heaven), after his son Cronus threw them into the sea (aphros means ‘foam’). Aphrodite had a wide portfolio: goddess of sexual love, beauty and fertility, she was also worshipped by seafarers, prostitutes and warriors. This terracotta figurine is an early representation of Aphrodite, with no features to distinguish her from other goddesses. (Pella Archaeological Museum):
Hermaphroditus, the son of Aphrodite and Hermes. The water-nymph Salmacis, seeing him bathing in a pool, fell in love and prayed that they may never be separated. The gods acquiesced and joined the pair into one body with a dual nature, boy and girl. Among Greeks and Romans, Hermaphroditus was worshipped by – unsurprisingly – hermaphrodites, and also by ‘effeminate men’. But he was also seen as a deity of marriage for representing the union of a man and a woman. Hermaphroditus has experienced an unexpected revival into the modern pantheon, as the Church of Woke often cites him in mendacious arguments for the idea of sex as a continuum. (AM):
A votive relief dedicated to Hades, the god of the dead and the ruler of the underworld. 2nd c. AD. The Greeks had a god or demigod for any imaginable situation or activity. Listeners of A Way with Words mentioned some gods missing from the museum, including: Lemonades, god of cool refreshments; Ledes, god of low power lamps; Marmalades, god of chunky fruit spreads; Seus, god of children’s literature; Mediocretes, god of things that are slightly below average; Herpes and Chlamydia, the incurable romantics; Auricles and Ventricles, protagonists of a heart-breaking story; Apallo, god of shock and dismay; Diabetes, the god of carbonated sodas; and Phlebotomies, god of vampires. (AM):
You may have attended symposiums, but not likely the ones put together by the Ancient Greeks. Symposiums were gatherings of upper-class men in the andrones (‘men’s quarters’), which were furnished with couches along the walls. The lads would dine and drink in a semi-reclining position, which was a mark of elegance and decorum (the standing figure is a slave, who are always depicted as small). Household women did not take part: instead, cultured and sophisticated courtesans (the hetairai) were hired to entertain the guests with music, songs, dances and their ‘feminine charm’. (AM).
A helmet and funerary mask from ~520 BC. The warrior was buried wearing his helmet and his face was covered with a golden mask. The facial characteristics must have been created by pressing the gold sheet against the dead man’s face. (AM).
This gold chest is believed to have held the bones of King Philip II, and the gold wreath of oak leaves adorned his dead body. Philip II turned the kingdom of Macedonia into a regional power and prepared the ground for his son, Alexander the Great. The discovery of Philip’s tomb near modern Vergina in 1977 by Greek archaeologist Manolis Andronikos is one the most remarkable archaeological findings ever. (Royal Tombs of Vergina):
A replica of the Horologion of Philippi from 250-350 AD. This amazing instrument was used to calculate time, latitude, the height and the azimuth of the sun or some other star. You can find out how it works here. Only the Antikythera Mechanism could be more spectacular and awe-inspiring (AM):
A clay alabastron (a vessel used for storing oil) with a bust of the god Dionysus from the 2nd-1st c. BC. It is shaped like a phallus, which was a symbol of fertility and well-being, and a charm to avoid bad luck. Phallic amulets, often in the form of winged willies, really took off with the Romans. They were depicted in jewellery, pendants, lamps, relief carvings, mosaics, etc. and given to male children to ward off the evil eye and keep them healthy during their early years. These phallic charms were known as fascini (sing. fascinus), which is fascinating. (Museum of the Roman Agora, Thessaloniki):
Alexander III, aka the Great (356-323 BC). As king of Macedonia, Alexander created the largest empire in the ancient world until the Romans came to the stage, and he laid the foundations for the Hellenistic Period, when Greek language and culture spread throughout the Mediterranean. Alexander was no thicko: he studied literature, science, medicine and philosophy under the supervision of Aristotle, his private tutor. This head bust embodies all that riles the Woke apostles: empire, male dominance, whiteness. So inevitably the Classics are being cancelled, sometimes by classicists themselves. (Pella Archaeological Museum):
This lead tablet from the 4th c. BC contains a curse in the dialect spoken by the population of Pella (the ancient capital of Macedon). Among other things, it says: ‘…were I ever to unfold and read these words again after digging (the tablet) up, only then should Dionysophon marry, not before; may he indeed not take another woman than myself, but let me alone grow old by the side of Dionysophon and no one else”; ‘But please keep this (piece of writing) for my sake so that these events do not happen and wretched Thetima perishes miserably’. Curse tablets with magic texts intending to cause harm or to ward off evil were a big thing among Greeks and Romans. They were placed in graves, thrown into wells or nailed to the walls of temples. A whole collection of them was found in the English city of Bath. (Pella Archaeological Museum):
There isn’t much wildlife in these photos by Athayde Tonhasca Júnior, but a lot of history and travel, so they qualify as “wildlife”. His notes are indented, and you can enlarge his photos by clicking on them.
Phoenicians, Greeks, and Minoans (Cretans) were very fond of octopuses. This 1500-1450 BC vase is one of many pieces of octopus-themed pottery in the Cyprus Museum (Nicosia) and museums from all over the Aegean region. Scholars have offered countless explanations for this Octopoda-fixation.
Today’s rich and famous stuff their homes with art objects, but the Romans had mosaics as symbols of status. They were created by artisans specialised in assembling tesserae (a tessera is a small tile made of ceramic, stone or glass). The Mosaics of Paphos from 3rd-4th century AD were discovered in 1962 when a farmer accidentally unearthed one of them while ploughing his field. They are part of Paphos archaeological complex, an UNESCO World Heritage site.
This mosaic depicts the duel between Theseus and the Minotaur in the Labyrinth of Crete. Theseus is holding a club and grabbing a horn of the Minotaur, who has fallen to his knees. The scene is framed by successive decorative zones that symbolize the Labyrinth.
Nicosia, the Cypriot capital, is not particularly photogenic. But many houses have lovely, old-fashioned porticos.
This street divides Lefkoşa (North Nicosia, on the left) and Lefkosia (South Nicosia), both surrounded by Venetian walls. Nicosia was the capital of the unified island until 1974, when Turkey invaded Cyprus. Now Lefkoşa is the capital of the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC), a ‘country’ recognised by nobody except Turkey, and Lefkosia is the capital of the Cyprus republic. The pillboxes on the right side are pocked by bullet marks, reminders of the vicious fighting in 1974.
The United Nations Buffer Zone, known as The Green Line. This 180 km-long no man’s land divides Cyprus from the Turkish occupied area. The Green Line is patrolled by a UN force and an army of mangy cats.
Cyprus version of Berlin’s Checkpoint Charlie: you show your passport to a bored Cypriot guard, walk 50 m past dilapidated & empty buildings, show your passport to a bored Turkish guard, and officially leave Europe. The Turkish side is jam-packed with shoppers with an eye for bargain luxury-branded merchandise, possibly genuine handbags, shoes, clothes and assorted tat. There’s no need to change currency: traders are more than happy to take Euros instead of the ailing Turkish Lira.
The Green Line is not a Berlin Wall reincarnation, but it saw its share of activists arrested or shot. Today the Line’s greater danger is being shouted at by a UN soldier for the illegal act of photographing their shabby military installations. Notice the white-and-blue Greek colours, which are meant to rub the Turks the wrong way.
The Liberty Monument to celebrate independence from Britain in 1960. Liberty stands above two members of EOKA (National Organisation of Cypriot Fighters) opening the prison gates to free rebels, civilians and the clergy. Unfortunately there was no room in the monument for remembering the hundreds of Turkish-Cypriots murdered by EOKA, whose war cry was ‘first the British and then the Turks’. About 90 EOKA members were killed during the insurgency (a few were tortured in prison by the British forces), while nearly 500 British & Turkish-Cypriots, including policemen, medics and civilians, were murdered. One man’s freedom fighter is another man’s terrorist.
The Liberty monument was erected in 1973, one year before the Turkish invasion. The bullet impressions above the heads of these statues are mementos of those turbulent times. It all started when the right-wing military usurped power in Greece, and the humourless, moustachioed colonels winked the go-ahead to the Greek-Cypriots dreaming of enosis (union with the Greek motherland). Union happened in Crete, but Turkish-Cypriots were not keen on pan-Hellenism. Turkey moved in to defend its brethren, thousands were killed, and many thousands living on the wrong side of the island were displaced.
You see more Greek flags than Cypriot flags in the streets of Nicosia. The enosis aspiration may not have died, which will keep the Turks wary of Cyprus’ reunification.
What did the British ever do for Cyprus? A decent postal service, for one thing. To disguise their colonial past, the traditional red pillar-boxes were painted yellow. But the Royal Cypher (George Rex) was kindly preserved.
Sign in a Nicosia restaurant: One of the penalties of refusing to participate in politics is that you end up being governed by your inferiors—Plato.
A Gothic church from 1360 in Gazimağusa (Famagusta) on the Turkish-occupied northern coast. Converted to a mosque in 1572, the Brits finally put the building to good use by changing it to a wheat warehouse. Famagusta was established during the Byzantine era by refugees from the island of Salamis (in today’s Greece) fleeing Arab raiders. The city prospered under the Lusignans (French crusaders who ruled Jerusalem, Cyprus and Armenia at various times between 12th and 15th c.), and reached its zenith with the influx of Christian merchants and craftsmen after the fall of Acre to the Saracens in 1291. The Catholic Church ban on economic ties with the infidel was an even better windfall: Famagusta, strategically positioned to face the Middle East, became a major commercial hub for the whole eastern Mediterranean. And you thought modern international relations were complex.
The Turkish and Turkish-Cypriot flags over the Venetian walls surrounding Famagusta. The town was blocked by the Ottomans in 1570, but the vastly outnumbered Venetian defenders held out for ten months. Their commander, Marcantonio Bragadin, agreed to surrender after being promised that civilians could leave the city and his soldiers could sail for Crete. But when the Ottoman commander Mustafa Paşa learned his opponents were so few, he lost his rag. He ordered the killing of several Venetian officers and the remaining Christians. Bragadin had his ears and nose cut off, and after several weeks of’ imprisonment, he was flayed alive. His skin was stuffed with straw and sent to the sultan in Constantinople. The treatment of Bragadin supposedly motivated the Venetians to victory at the Battle of Lepanto, which stopped Ottoman expansion in the Mediterranean. Eventually a Venetian pinched Bragadin’s skin and smuggled it to Venice, where it rests in the Basilica di San Giovanni e Paolo. The tall buildings in the distance are in the ghost town of Varosha. Once the heart of Famagusta’s tourism, the town was evacuated and fenced off after the 1974 Turkish invasion.
Severios Library’s inspiring front (Nicosia).
No boring “High Street” or “Station Road” in Cyprus or Greece.
Another charming portico in Nicosia.
From Jerry: Since it’s Caturday, I want to add that Cypress may be the site where we have the first evidence of domesticated cats (9,500 years ago). Here’s the Wikipedia entry:
Historians previously accounted Egypt as the earliest site of cat domestication due to the clear depictions of house cats in ancient Egyptian paintings about 3,600 years old. However, in 2004, a Neolithic grave was excavated in Shillourokambos, Cyprus that contained skeletons, laid close to one another, of both a human and a cat. The grave is estimated to be 9,500 years old, pushing back the earliest known feline-human association significantly. The cat specimen is large and closely resembles the African wildcat (Felis silvestris lybica), rather than present-day domestic cats.
Here’s a photo of the site and a reconstruction from National Geographic (captions are theirs). I put the arrow to show the cat skeleton. Text from Nat. Geo.:
The complete body of the animal was buried in a small pit at about twenty centimeters from the human grave. The tomb, particularly rich in offerings in comparison to other graves known from this period in Cyprus, suggests that the individual had a special social status. Τhis grave certainly bears witness to relationships between humans and cats in the 8th millennium B.C., not restricted to the material benefit of humans but also involved in spiritual links.
The cat is buried together with its “master”, 3D reconstruction of the Early Aceramic Neolithic grave of Shillourokambos.
Today’s batch of photos (please send yours in!) comes from reader Joe Baldassano. His notes are indented, and you should click on the photos to enlarge them.
Joe’s intro:
Recently I took a trip to the following national parks: Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado, Mesa Verde National Park, Colorado, Petrified Forest National Park, AZ, Saguaro National Park, AZ and White Sands National Monument, NM.
Photo of Sand in the valley which extends high up on the hills:
Great Sand Dunes National Park and Preserve protects the tallest dunes in North America… and a whole lot more. The park and preserve contain ecosystems ranging from wetlands to forest to tundra—each supporting specially adapted plant, animal, and insect life. (Source: National Park Service)
The Ancestral Puebloans, also known as the Anasazi, were an ancient Native American culture that spanned the present-day Four Corners region of the United States, comprising southeastern Utah, northeastern Arizona, northwestern New Mexico, and southwestern Colorado. The Ancestral Puebloans lived in a range of structures that included small family pit houses, larger structures to house clans, grand pueblos, and cliff-sited dwellings for defense. (Source: Wikipedia)
Photos: Walking Path through the forest, and then a Fallen Petrified Tree
Get up close to petrified logs by wandering along trails in the park’s southern section. The Petrified Forest was formed from these ancient trees, given the scientific name Araucarioxylon arizonicum, and have morphed from wood to almost solid quartz, taking on colors from iron, carbon and manganese. The Crystal Forest, Giant Logs and Long Logs trails loop past petrified wood deposits, huge logs and even an ancient log jam. Interested more in ancient fauna than flora? The Rainbow Forest Museum has paleontological displays of prehistoric animal skeletons. (Source: state of Arizona visitor’s Guide)
Me standing in front of a large cacti to show size:
Rainbow over a walking trail through the park (a very lucky shot):
A cactus, showing the landscape.
Tucson, Arizona is home to the nation’s largest cacti. The giant saguaro is the universal symbol of the American west. These majestic plants, found only in a small portion of the United States, are protected by Saguaro National Park, to the east and west of the modern city of Tucson (Source: state of Arizona visitor’s Guide)
Visitors sleigh riding on the sand as if it were snow (I’m told this is a regular pastime for locals):
Sun beginning to set over the sand covered landscape.
Rising from the heart of the Tularosa Basin is one of the world’s great natural wonders – the glistening white sands of New Mexico. Great wave-like dunes of gypsum sand have engulfed 275 square miles of desert, creating the world’s largest gypsum dune field. White Sands National Park preserves a major portion of this unique dune field, along with the plants and animals that live here. (Source: National Park Service)
For some reason I didn’t have time to write about our last meal in Paris, at the esteemed and old fashioned restaurant Sébillon in Neuilly, a small town that’s not in Paris, but might as well be. It was recommended by one of Winnie’s friends, and it turned out to be an excellent recommendation. It’s a little bit out of the way, so although it was jammed for Sunday lunch, we saw no other tourists. Winnie’s friend Nicole joined us for the house specialty, gigot (leg of lamb) served with the traditional white beans. And it’s served according to the two most beautiful words in French: à volonté, or “at your will”. The proper English tradition is “all you can eat”. And I was prepared to eat plenty of lamb leg, especially if was cooked the right way: pink on the inside, or even rare.
I got off at the wrong Métro stop, but I didn’t know that. Because I was early, I went into a nearby Catholic church (St. Jean-Baptiste) as I heard the sounds of Mass within. I hadn’t been in a Mass since 1989, when I wandered into the midnight Mass at Notre Dame in Paris. What with the singing, the organ, and the swinging censers spewing incense, and the church (before it was burned) that was quite a spectacle.
A few scenes from the Neuilly church:
A kid getting baptized, as per the church’s name. You don’t get dunked like a doughnut any more; this priest simply dipped a hankie in the holy water and wiped the boy’s forehead. That’s baptism on the cheap!
St. John the Baptist:
A memorial to those who died for France in WWI:
. . . and the painting below it:
The Mass:
Suddenly my phone buzzed; it was Winnie telling me I was late. It turns out there are two stops on the Métro like with the name “Neuilly” in them, and I had gotten off at the wrong one. Fortunately, the right one was just two stops down the line, and the Restaurant Sébillon was right by the stop. And so we were only a few minutes late.
Restaurant exterior:
The interior. It’s a panorama, so click to enlarge. It’s an old-fashioned place, lovely and just perfect for Sunday lunch when, according to tradition, adults take their parents and older relatives out to lunch:
I had the prix-fixe menu, which included a choice of oysters for the entrée. My haul:
I had a white wine whose genre I can’t remember (it’s been too long)
Winnie and Nicole had the white asparagus, which was in season. (I almost went for it.) It was served with a butter sauce that both of them eschewed
And then. . . . the GIGOT, brought to the table on carts. I could specify that I wanted rare lamb, and knew that I could get more:
My first plate (I had three). This is how I like my lamb, and this was terrific: juicy and flavorful. The beans were also excellent (the quality of gigot-accompanying beans does vary among restaurants.)
We all had gigot. Nicole, whose appetite is normal, was satisfied with one plate, and I think I even beat Winnie, who had two (she generally can outeat me). But we differed in our desserts. I had the baba au rhum (rum-soaked spongecake), served with a bottle of rum (yo ho ho!) on the side if you want more. This was the rummiest baba au rhum I’ve ever had! I was tipsy after the meal, and I think the rum was largely responsible.
The ladies had a crème caramel and crêpes for dessert:
A selfie of all of us. The room was filled with locals, with many tables occupied by families as well as and seniors, the latter presumably grandparents.
On the way out, we passed a huge and luscious-looking apple tarte:
I decided to visit the nearby Musée de l’Homme while the ladies went off to nap. It turned out that I should have napped too, as the famous anthropology museum was huge, and I was too full to take it all in. But I wanted to see the exhibit of early human art that had influenced Picasso.
Here’s a reproduction of the Venus of Lespuge, between 26,000 and 24,000 years old,
And a Picasso nude, “Bust of a Woman” (1931) showing a similar style:
Also on view: beach stones that Picasso picked up and sculpted, presumably influenced by “primitive” art. These must be worth a gazillion dollars.
I was too exhausted to peruse the anthropological collections, but did note two things. First, a wall of rubber tongues. When you pull on one, it speaks the language it represents (each tongue connects to a speaker so you can hear the language). Very clever!
And, right outside is a famous Parisian landmark:
Thus endeth my Parisian food jaunt, that included eight restaurants. As for the Sébeillon, I recommend it highly, but do go for Sunday lunch, and reserve!
Today’s photos are not really of wildlife, but show the last segment of Kevin Elsken’s golfing-and-whisky vacation to the Scotland and Ireland. His notes are indented, and you can enlarge the photos by clicking on them.
Our visit to Ireland complete, we met once again with our Aquaholic ship and prepared to sail to Islay, a 240 square mile island just west of the Kintyre Peninsula. Just to be clear I have mispronounced this name every way imaginable, but never again! It is pronounced “EYE-la”. Calling it “IS-lay” is every bit as bad as pronouncing my home state name as “ar-KANSAS”. Do not be that person.
Rathlin Island is just off the northern coast of Ireland, and besides some beautiful cliffs, it features the world’s only upside-down lighthouse.
Our port of call for Islay was Port Ellen. As we approached, the Mull of Oa slowly became visible on our port side. The following photo is not particularly clear, but if you look carefully at the left side of the land mass you will see a tower pointing towards the heavens.
This is the American Monument, erected in 1920 by the American Red Cross, and it tells a story that I had never heard but will never forget.
On January 24, 1918 the SS Tuscania departed the United States with 384 crew members and over 2000 army personnel headed to Europe to fight in the Great War. On February 5 the German U-boat UB-77 contacted her convoy and, just after dark, launched two torpedoes. One found its mark. Luckily rescue boats were nearby, but still over 200 dead bodies, and some survivors, washed upon the shore of Islay. And what did the good people there do? They climbed down the cliffs, rescued the living, retrieved the dead, and gave them a humanitarian burial.
On September 25 of the same year the HMS Otranto, another troop ship, departed New York. On October 6, in heavy seas, the Otranto collided with another troop ship just off Islay. Over 300 men entered the water and a few made it to shore and were rescued. Again, the good people of Islay climbed down the cliffs, retrieved the bodies, and gave them a humanitarian burial.
We struck up a conversation with a local couple at the hotel patio bar. When they recounted the events of 1918 it was apparent, evidenced by the emotion in their faces and voices, that these events had a staggering impact on the inhabitants of the island, even more than a century later.
But on to happier topics. After our late morning arrival we checked into our hotel and began our next adventure, walking the Three Distilleries Path.
The three distilleries in question are Laphraoig, Lagavulin, and Ardbeg. We ask at the hotel desk how long the walk to the distilleries was, and received one of the funnier replies of the trip: “Aye, it will take ye’ about 30 minutes to get there, and it will take ye’ about 3 hours to get back.” Challenge accepted.
The walk was not easy. It was guarded dangerous critters:
Along the walk, ho-hum, another day in Scotland, another picture of the ruins of an 800 year old Scottish Castle. In this case it is Dunyvaig Castle:
But finally we arrived at our important destination: Lagavulin Distillery, where we had reserved a warehouse tasting.
And what a tasting! We had 5 or 6 samples, as I recall, and one was a pretty old one (20 year? 25 year? I don’t recall exactly, I had a three hour walk ahead of me!!). That one was extra special, for sure. At the Bushmills Distillery in Northern Ireland they had a display showing how much of the “Angel’s Share” is lost when you store a whisky in a wooden barrel for 20 years. And it is a lot. No wonder the old stuff is so damn expensive.
So we did manage the trek back to the hotel and the next day we played the Machrie Golf Course. The heather, the gorse, the dunes, the ocean, it is why I love to play a true links golf course.
So after just over two weeks of fun and travel, our trip was coming to a close. Here is the sunset over Port Ellen on the last night of our golf trip proper (I got to spend one more night at a Holiday Inn Express next to the airport. Not counting that).
But our last day was a good one, a long drive with three ferry crossings on our way back to Glasgow. The morning started with a gorgeous sunrise as we headed out on the ferry.
As we made our way back to Kintyre we passed near the Isle of Jura. The mountain peaks are known as ‘The Paps of Jura’. Some trivia: Jura is where George Orwell lived when he wrote the novel ‘1984’. He suffered from tuberculosis, and he died shortly after the novel was published. His actual name was Eric Blair.
After landing we had a short drive to the lovely town of Tarbet, where we waited for our second ferry of the day. We had time to make a short climb to Tarbet Castle, which overlooks the town and the East Loch. The tower we see today dates to 1494, though there were structures there in the 13th century.
Our second ferry crossing went from Tarbet to Portavidie. I couldn’t help but chuckle when I spotted the following sign over the engine room door:
Not being a linguist, at first I thought the scribbled second line was Gaelic, but actually it is Italian. Which is kind of a second level of scary for if you have ever owned a Fiat you know how problematic Italian engineering can be. Which reminds me of an old joke:
In Heaven…
The Engineers are German
The Police are British
The Chefs are Italian
And The Lovers are French
But in Hell…
The Engineers are Italian
The Police are French
The Chefs are British
And the Lovers are German…
I guess I am cancelled now. Even though my ancestry favors Germany.
The last photo is one of the group that I travelled with, enjoying one last beautiful view, this one at the Tighnabruaich Viewpoint over Loch Ruel. In particular I want to give shout out to my friend Dick Smith (2nd from right). In my experience some people just have a knack for travel. How to find the right hotel, the right pub, a driver (or a boat) when you need one. Dick is one of those guys. He told me of hiring a young man to drive Dick and his wife Mary over the Andes one night so that they could catch a plane the next morning. “I was a little concerned”, Dick said, “The guy was chewing coca leaves. He offered me some, but I declined. You know, I should have tried it”. That is Dick. Right now Dick and Mary are headed for Antarctica. Travel safe, my friend.
I’ve been told that my Antarctic cruise employers don’t require lecturers this year, so my fall/winter speaking gig in Antarctica is off, much to my distress. I was also invited to the Netherlands to speak, but then the invitation was rescinded because it was a Dutch meeting and, they said, they didn’t require “an American point of view” (the topic was religion vs. science).
Although I’m doing a alumni lecture tour of the Galápagos in August, which is fantastic, that’s only for nine days. Ergo, I need some places to go for R&R this summer/fall/winter, and am crowdsourcing ideas. Here are places I’ve thought of:
New Zealand. I’ve never properly seen the North Island, but my eagerness to go has been dampened since Heather Hastie died.
South Africa. I need to see the Big Animals before I die, and although South Africa is reputed to be less safe than other African countries, I know people there and the animals are numerous.
Israel. I’ve always wanted to see Israel for myself, and, being small, it’s a good country to visit for a couple of weeks, as one can see a lot.
Antarctica (paying my own way). The problem is that this is quite pricey, but I do need to see the island of South Georgia before I die. It has a huge colony of king penguins and is, of course, the place where Shackleton is buried.
I haven’t thought much about other foreign destinations, and am open to suggestions. I had considered Nepal again (I’ve hiked to the base of Everest twice and to Annapurna once), but I realize now that I’m pretty old to do this (I always carry my own gear and don’t want to hire porters).
And then, of course, there’s the U.S., and there are a lot of places to think about. I love New Mexico, but it’s best in the spring and fall. I’ve always dreamed of renting a car and driving the Blues Trail down through Mississippi down to Louisiana (eating on the way, of course), and I’ve never been Savannah, Georgia, which is supposed to be lovely—a more southern version of Charleston, South Carolina, which I have visited.
The only requirements for foreign travel is that the place be interesting and have good food. Food is also a sine qua non for domestic travel, but there are few places in America where you can’t find a good nosh.
Feel free to suggest places to visit, but remember that they have to be more than places you’ve liked: they have to be places I’d like, too. Tastes differ!
Here’s South Georgia:
Colony of King Penguins. (Photo: Pew Charitable Trust)
This will be a quickie, as I must scribble this post and then pack, for I’m leaving early tomorrow for home.
Our lunch destination was the Café des Ministères in the spiffy Seventh Arrondissement, where there are lots of fancy apartments and government buildings (ergo the name of the café). One of Winnie’s friends recommended it for its large portions of good food (always a draw), and it also has famous chou farci (stuffed cabbage), for which it won the “best of” prize in France last year. How could I not try that dish?
It’s a short walk from the Invalides Métro stop to the restaurant, and you pass the National Assembly (France’s legislative body) on the way. Note the “Woman, Life, Freedom” slogan in several languages on the left. That’s the cry of the new Iranian revolutionaries, and I wonder if this was to deliberately show solidarity with Iran. On the right it says “Freedom for everyone, everywhere,” with the figure of Marianne, the woman who symbolizes the French Republic and the freedom of its citizens.
A statue of Marianne:
The café, which isn’t very large. Although there were a few open tables at lunch, the proprietress (who was not very friendly) turned people away if they didn’t have reservations. But there may be a reason for that, like not having enough chou farci on hand for those without reservations.
Nicole, Winnie’s friend, was to join us again as she greatly enjoyed our meal of lamb at Sébillon. While waiting for them, I luxuriated in a park across the street, surrounded by bits of old Paris like this streetlight:
The inside of the restaurant (there’s a smaller back room) with a display of digestifs:
The menu, front and back:
Nicole’s entrée: Leeks vinaigrette with a sauce that included minced egg and sausage. I tried some; very nice!
Winnie had the octopus starter with Spanish sausage (chorizo-like) and chickpeas. She liked it, but to save room she ate only the mollusc.
My starter: the house terrine with pork, chicken liver, and pickled veggies on the side. It was at least twice as thick as the terrine you usually get in a restaurant, and I knew if I ate it all, I wouldn’t be able to handle my cabbage. Sadly, I left about a third of it. That’s sad, because it was excellent.
The pickled vegetables below replaced the usual small pickles (cornichons) served with paté. These were lovely. I hate cauliflower, but crunched greedily on this version and on the carrots. I’ve never had pickled vegetables so tasty. Of course I downed my terrine with plenty of the local bread.
Winnie’s plat: the classic coquilles St. Jacques (scallops, nine total) served in scallop shells and resting on a bed of garlicky mushroom duxelles. ringed with baked mashed potatoes that were crunchy on top and soft inside. She pronounced it excellent. (The French say “miam miam” instead of “yum yum”, but they sound the same.)
Scallop season in France goes from October 1 to May 15, and catching them smaller than 11 cm is not allowed.
Nicole and I had the famous stuffed cabbage. Here’s the award for Best Stuffed Cabbage in France that they display proudly:
IT WAS A WHOLE DAMN CABBAGE, not just a few stuffed leaves. I’m not sure what was in the stuffing, but certainly pork, and then, in the middle, a hunk of salted ham. It was terrific!
Partly dissected:
Partly dissected showing the coeur de jambon. Many people ordered this but none finished it. I ate about 60%, and they even offered to let us take the rest home (if I lived here I would have!)
Desserts. Last night Winnie said that she and Nicole had decided to have three desserts between the two of them (I was going to pass on dessert and have a Mont Blanc pastry at Angelinas across the Seine.) I didn’t think they could do it, but they did!
First, profiteroles (creampuffs) with ice cream and warm chocolate sauce:
Second, rhubarb Pavlova with strawberries and frozen yogurt:
And a delicious Parisian flan with vanilla. It had the consistency of cheesecake rather than flan, and was redolent with vanilla bean (you can see the seeds in the cake). I had some and it was incroyable.
Nicole (photographing me) and Winnie during dessert. Afterwards, Nicole pronounced that she’d eaten way too much. But she has the makings of a foodie in her!
We strolled across the river to the famous Place de la Concorde, which was hardly harmonious during the French Revolution, for this is where the guillotine was set up to lop off the heads of royalty and commoners alike. In its center is one of the two Egyptian Luxor Obelisks, constructed around 1250 BC and given to France by Egypt in 1830. Moving it must have been quite a job! It was towed on its own ship by another sailing ship.
The gold-leaf cover was added in 1998, and the height of the obelisk and newer pedestal is about 33 m (109 feet).
It still has the original hieroglyphics, whose translation is here:
Two famous structures in the same frame, built more than a millennium apart:
We made a quick stop in the fancy shop of the Japanese designer Issey Miyake, as Winnie likes his clothes (he died not long ago). Her “anemone pants” are by Miyake. Here’s one outfit on display.
I looked at some price tags of the clothes, and very small blouses were over 1000€. I have to admit that a lot of his stuff is nice, though I’m not keen on the outfit below.
Then a stiff walk down the Rue Rivoli to Angelina’s. Instead of going inside, I decided to buy one of their famous Mont Blancs and take it back to my hotel. In fact, I just polished it off before I wrote this paragraph: it’s pure cream filling covered with ribbons of rich, chestnut-purée frosting, all resting on a thin cookie. It is outstanding.
Angelina’s. We skipped the line to sit down with pastries and hot chocolate, as I didn’t think my stomach could handle both.
Of course, to get at the goods, you have to open the fiendishly devised pastry box that they put the Mont Blanc in, and that’s after after you remove the box from the requisite fancy bag:
Et voila! A Mont Blanc in all its glory!:
Partly eaten. Oy, was it good!
And that was my last meal in Paris, the world’s most beautiful and romantic city (I haven’t seen them all, but this is still on top). My next meal will be whatever glop Air France decides to give me on the way home tomorrow. I will miss this town. All told, I’ve probably spent about a year in Paris (I did six months hear during my first sabbatical in 1989, when I met Matthew in the fly lab at the CNRS an hour out of town. (I decided to live in Paris, and had a garret apartment in the Sixth.)
We will temporarily skip the post abut yesterday’s meal—but only for a short time—because that will involve a longer post since I also went to the Musée de l’Homme (and watched a Catholic mass and baptism before lunch) and took some photos that would make this post too time-consuming to write today. I’ll post about Sunday’s all-you-can-eat lamb leg lunch either tomorrow or Wednesday.
But enjoy an account of our gargantuan lunch from today. We returned to a place where we had a spectacular meal several years ago, and then a not-so-great one last week. We decided to give it one more try, as it might have been having an off day last Wednesday. And I’m glad we did.
We returned in fact to the Restaurant Cartet, having specified in advance that we wanted to try the navarin: French lamb and turnip stew. Dominique, the owner, cook, manager, and server (he’s the only guy who works there) requested in turn that Winnie wear her spiky, stretchy pants, as (being a gardener) he said they reminded him of anemone flowers moving in the breeze. (Remember, this is France.).
So, Winnie donned her trousers and we met at Le Cartet, worried that the meal would be so-so like the one we had last week. But then, as Dominique unlocked the door to let us in (and then relocked it), we spotted four big bowls of desserts on one table to the right, and three big entrees on the other, and we knew we were in for another belly buster. First, the trousers in question:
What we saw upon entering: the desserts: riz au lait (rice pudding), the cream for Îles flottantes (floating islands), into which you put big globs of stiff meringue at the last moment, a gigantic tureen of crème caramel, and bugnes (small crispy pastries dusted with sugar, not visible in photo below). We did not know that a tureen of fantastic chocolate mousse, the best I’ve ever had, was also lurking in the kitchen. The huge array of desserts and entrées let us know that Cartet was back on form.
These are not ramekins; they are BIG BOWLS and TUREENS.
The entrées: beef muzzle with mustard sauce (not my favorite, but still pretty good), fresh artichokes with fresh pecorino cheese, and my favorite of all Dominiques starters, endives with walnuts, also with mustard sauce. There was a also a plate of beautiful tomatoes, which he displayed because some of them had gone into the navarin.
Starters: the endives. Yum! This is a world-class entrée.
At this point we were discussing Calvados (a meal at Cartet, if you befriend Dominique, is half eating and have chatting with le chef), and Dominique displayed this bottle of Didier Lemorton Reserve Calvados from Normandy, which he said was made from 70% apple and 30% pear. He brought it out because the wine we were drinking was redolent of pear. (I am now regretting not having a small taste of the Calvados after lunch, as I see it’s highly rated on the Internet.)
The plat (main course) was navarin: spring lamb and turnip stew with tomatoes, peas, carrots, and mushrooms. We ate almost the whole bowl, sopping up the juices with crusty baguette. I didn’t hold out much hope for lamb and turnip stew, but this is a traditional seasonal dish in France, called navarin printanier when made with fresh Spring veggies. And Ceiling Cat help me if it wasn’t delicious!
We also had the same luscious white wine we had last time
Desserts: The crème caramel, which was about four inches thick with a crispy crust, luscious creamy/gelatinous interior, and a layer of caramel sauce at the bottom. Délicieux! This is a big crock that could feed five, but we ate nearly half of it. (There is no hope of finishing most dishes at Cartet, and the chef knows it.) But Winnie and I are nearly equal to the task, for we are feeders.
Below: rice pudding, some of the finest I’ve ever had, rivaling that of L’Ami Jean before that bistro went steeply downhill due to an influx of diners driven there by Adam Gopnik’s favorable review in TheNew Yorker. I’ll never forgive Adam for writing about the place! We took a pass on the isle flottante as we didn’t want to waste the meringue and we were getting pretty full.
Again, this is enough for four or five people even as a single dessert. It’s very rich. Perhaps it’s in my Jewish genes, but I love rice pudding.
On the side we got a bonus plate of bugnes lyonnais craquantes, a crispy accompaniment to wet desserts. They’re basically made of donut ingredients and deep fried, then dusted with powdered sugar.
Just as we could barely eat any more dessert (or a molecule of any food), Dominique appeared at the kitchen door with a big bowl of chocolate mousse, and put a huge spoonful of it on each of our plates. Yes, it was the best chocolate mousse I’ve ever had: cakelike on the top, more moussemo-ish a bit further down, and with small bits of solid chocolate floating throughout. The taste and texture were incomparable.
Dominique doesn’t like to be photographed, but he obliged me by posing with the bowl of mousse over his face.
While we were eating, he was cleaning a bunch of chinaberries (Melia azedarach) to make a necklace and bracelets from the seeds for the children who were coming this evening.
This is a TON of work: you have to boil the berries to loosen the skin, peel it off, scrub the berries with a nylon sponge-thingie so they’re clean, and then let them dry. Chinaberries are popular in some places to make jewelry as the dried seeds are crenulated like a peeled orange and have a natural hole in them, perfect for stringing. They are also used to make rosaries. The fruits and skins are toxic to humans, but are consumed by birds.
One seed. You can’t see the natural hole through it, but, when dried, these can be easily strung on a thread.
Dominique did all this work simply to bring joy to the children dining there tonight. He works because he loves to work, and he doesn’t care about money, which is why he usually serves only one table at lunch and/or dinner.
For more on chinaberry jewelry, go here. I think the trees are easily found in the US.
Here’s our reservation in the book; note that it just says “Winnie” and “2 couverts” (two “covers”, or customers). Again, there were only two of us at lunch, but there would be four for dinner. Although the restaurant opens at noon, Winnie asked to dine at 11:30 so we’d have at least 2.5 hours for lunch (not a long lunch at Cartet)—she had a later engagement. Note that “Navarin” is listed by her name, as we requested it this time.
Finally, Dominique does all the produce shopping for the restaurant, sometimes getting up at 2 a.m. for the hour-long schlep to the Rungis wholesale market, where Les Halles moved when in 1973 it evacuated its centuries-long location in the middle of the city. The market is only open very early in the morning, and only chefs and the like are allowed to shop there. It’s the second largest wholesale food market in the world (second only to Mexico City), and is larger than Monaco!
Winnie took this picture of me after lunch. If you enlarge it, I suspect you’ll see that my tummy is enlarged:
For readers, I still recommend this restaurant highly: two of the three meals we had there were nothing short of spectacular, and will be remembered fondly. It’s an absolutely unique place, and you’ll have to call for reservations.
Again, you might hit it on an off day, but if you order the boeuf ficelle, you can’t go wrong (specify when reserving, or ask what is on offer). It ain’t cheap: lunch for two was 300 euros, but in my view we got our money’s worth. (There is no menu with prices; you are simply presented with a bill at the end that gives the total price, sometimes separated by food and wine.)
Now I am in my hotel, typing on my laptop but keeping it off of my stomach, which is still painfully distended with lunch
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