By gaabi, 2008-10-02
Huge, flesh-eating slugs have been found in Wales. The gigantic, flesh-eating, so-called "Ghost Slug," named because of its white color and the fact that it hunts at night, is armed with rows of razor-blade teeth that it uses to engulf its prey alive, piece by piece, one end still hopelessly kicking while the other is helplessly devoured.
The National Geographic reports that the monstrous, flesh-eating creature's origin remains a mystery and that it is not known how serious a threat it is to Britain's native flora, which include humans.
As can be seen in the photograph* below, a giant slug in Cardiff could be very dangerous and cause incredible damage.
[* artist rendering]
By gaabi, 2008-10-01
By gaabi, 2008-09-13
By gaabi, 2008-09-07
to more artistic and experimental forms:
Here in Oregon, we're lucky to have Ianto Evans and the Cob Cottage Company . They offer apprenticeships and workshops on cob building and Mr. Evans, an Oregonian of Welsh birth, has written books on cob building and efficient woodburning stoves, including his own invention, the rocket stove .He's also written a book on building with cob, The Hand-Sculpted House: A Practical and Philosophical Guide to Building a Cob Cottage: The Real Goods Solar Living Book , with co-authors from the Cob Cottage Company. This is a great book and I'm buying a copy, there are five copies at my library and they're always out. So if you're interested in a fascinating project - from a real house to a bench for your home, have a look at cob.
By gaabi, 2008-09-07
By gaabi, 2008-08-08
By gaabi, 2008-07-01
By gaabi, 2008-05-20
R.S. Thomas' glorious Welsh Landscape
Ianto Rhydderch, Tch Tch :
One day while I was docking swedes
With a slow moronic grin
And all my ancestors misdeeds
Wrought their sour death within.
Suddenly there came into view
A figure gaunt and tall.
He said, Forgive me naming you.
I made no sound at all.
He carried on at tedious length
About my life so grim,
It took all my idiot peasant strength
To be polite to him.
At last he ceased and strode away,
The cold Welsh rain came down,
In puddles in that barren clay
I watched my country drown.
Then, indistinguishable from mud,
I started my old car,
The sickness of my tainted blood
Inclined me to a jar.
And oh what festering itch of sin
Brought this damp thought to me
As I fuddled in a squalid inn:
Un baint much help to we.