delicious durham

It’s been a long while since I last took you dear blog readers (you are there, right? hello? is this thing on?) on a little walk with me.  Today’s adventure features a recent trek through the beautiful American Tobacco Campus in Durham, and other amblings in that area.  So get yourself a wee cuppa, and let’s trundle* along, shall we?

*verb: Belfast speak for taking a wee walk. See also: “a wee dander”. IMG_6096 IMG_6099 I know I’m, er, well-grounded height-wise, but that be a right tall structure, y’all. IMG_6102 I am oh-so-fond of crumbling things (especially apple crumbly things with ice cream), and this wee dander had plenty of that to enjoy (the crumbling things, sadly not the apple crumble). IMG_6104 Two things about this picture: 1) whoever you send out of that door is not your friend (or won’t be after you tell them to “just head out that door.”  2) I’m intensely curious about what those pigeons are saying to one another.  Probably something along the lines of, “Silly paparazzi…sigh.  We can’t go anywhere.” IMG_6106 Multicolored peeling paint!  Rust!  Swoon. IMG_6108 IMG_6110 Rusty steps. IMG_6112 I like railroad tracks.  I also like the person standing on the other side of them. IMG_6114 IMG_6116   The golden hour. IMG_6117 I loved the woodgrain of these railroad ties. IMG_6120 And here is the cuddliest plant you’ll ever meet.  Really.  You’ll want to just stop for several moments and rub your face on it.  Go ahead, take a minute… Ready to move on?  Okay. IMG_6122 An awesomely teeny door.  (Which we hobbit-like people appreciate). IMG_6121 This felt very much like Austin to me.  We complete our little tour with a coffee cup, just as we began it.  I hope your explorations today take you somewhere delightful, where there’s coffee.  And crumbling things (of the beautifully dilapidated and apple varieties).

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2 thoughts on “delicious durham

  1. Thanks for the meander and your narrative. Could you smell ghosts of tobacco leaves? Or hear echoes of lunchroom chatter? In my early years, my dad worked at a shipyard about ten blocks from our house. At day’s end, we could hear the whistle. I’d go to the next block and try to make out his face in the parade of men making for home and supper. Sometimes, I would carry his lunchbox.

    When our manufacturing jobs were given away overseas, it wasn’t just incomes and pride of work they took. It was a way of life. Some would say a small, modest even, way. But our family knew what our dad did for a living, saw the fatigue raw on his face, and knew he was doing it for us.

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