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#wattle fence
halleehalfgallon · 1 year
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behold!
the great golden-ing 🌞✨🌾
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bintkhalil · 5 months
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Fiberboard - Eclectic Exterior An eclectic large brown concrete fiberboard exterior home remodel with three stories and a shingle roof.
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shslsyoko · 7 months
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Exterior Fiberboard Baltimore
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Idea for a large, three-story eclectic brown home with concrete fiberboard siding and shingles
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dailybruce · 9 months
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Eclectic Landscape - Driveway Inspiration for a large, eclectic gravel driveway in the front yard in the spring.
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s2z · 1 year
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Airport West, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia. 2022-10-25 10:55:16
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Airport West, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia. 2022-10-25 10:55:16 by stuart murdoch
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mothmiso · 1 month
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British countryside (2) (3) (4) by Mark
Via Flickr:
(3) Flatford Mill     
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pineyw00dsshesquatch · 8 months
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My deep East TX Piney woods garden. I started it really late, so I only have tomatillos trellised on the left of the last pic and the rest is peppers to cope with the heat. The little red one is my first Chile de Arbol I just strung up to dry. Other types I have are jalapeño, serrano, Chile de Arbol, pasilla, and cayenne. My containers are upcycled from thrift stores with spray paint and dollar store sequins.
I made the edging out of wattle fencing using yaupon which ARE a holly, so they work perfectly. That was only my second time making wattle fencing, so it's not amazing, but I still really like it. I see a lot of turorials about wattle fencing online, but none of it really explores what other trees to use besides regular holly and willow. Yaupon is PROLIFIC out here, so it makes for excellent free material. I just mulched the bed with pine needles because we're in the no rain part of summer and they'll block the weeds.
Even though it's late, I want to start sweet potatoes in another bed. It stays hot here so long, I'm gonna roll the dice on em. I have another bed of good forest dirt, but it prolly needs sand or perlite to be loose enough for them. There's a lot of clay in the soil here, it's what keeps these woods clinging on through droughts, but it SUCKS to dig thu.
February was month of the septic tank war and the clay pit that almost sucked in He-squatch like 5 times.
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Best painters in Magill-Painters decorators Stony fell
https://restylepaintinganddecorating.com.au/testimonials/ Restyle Painting and Decorating is family-run painting and decorating business that has been in business for more than 16 years.Our top goal is quality, and this is evident in the fact that our company has expanded thanks to several recommendations from content customers.Welcome to our website:https://restylepaintinganddecorating.com.au/
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tkingfisher · 1 year
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This is Lucky, with his lady Clotho. Lucky is a bantam Birchen Cochin, and Clotho was having a molt but we don’t mention that because chickens are sensitive about it. As you can see, they are small spherical borbs.
Now, Lucky is a perfect gentleman. His ladies love him, he never offers violence to chicks, he is resigned to Kevin picking him up and woogie-ing his wattles, and he was gracious to the ancient Rhode Island Red rooster that lived out his golden years in the same enclosure. (We have two, but they share a fence.)
Also his crow sounds like a kazoo solo.
But Lucky is also a bantam, which means that all the rage that lies in the heart of a rooster has been compressed into diamond-like ferocity. Case in point: we once had a fox going over the fence to grab hens. One day, the fox grabbed Lucky. We learned this when we found Lucky outside of his enclosure, covered in blood—only some of it his—and so hyped up on adrenaline that he immediately tried to fight Ninja, the top rooster, who immediately realized that he had pressing business under a rosebush.
We have not seen the fox or lost a hen since.
I tell you that story to tell you this one. Kevin has a very large Black Cochin named Pot Pie. He’s about three times Lucky’s size, and he doesn’t so much crow as roar like a T-Rex. He is huge. And every night, for months, he would go to the fence and flare his neck feathers out at Lucky—through the fence—going “If you were over here, I’d sit on you, little man,” to which Lucky would reply “Oh yeah? Come over HERE and say that.”* But they never leave their respective enclosures, because neither of them can fly for crap. Lucky because he’s too short to get over the fence and Pot Pie because he’s too heavy to get off the ground.
(Occasionally this standoff would end in someone trying to jump-kick the other one and getting tangled in the fence. I once had to sit for five minutes with a flashlight clenched in my teeth, untangling Lucky’s foot. But he is, as in said, a perfect gentleman and sat patiently while I did.)
Today, Kevin was on a work call and looked out the window just in time to see Pot Pie tearing across the yard at extraordinary velocity, pursued by a tiny wrathful rooster. Lucky must have found a gap in the fence at last, because he came over and immediately set about putting the fear of God into his giant nemesis.
When Kevin came outside to give everyone treats, Lucky was strutting around, calling the hens—there’s a little chuckle roosters do that means “Look, ladies, I found a treat!”—and surrounded by an admiring crowd of both bantam and full-size ladies.
Kevin escorts Lucky back to his own enclosure, where his own hens greet him as a conquering hero. He then searches for Pot Pie, and finally hears a THUD as the T-Rex jumps down from hiding inside the coop, pokes his head out, and is like “Is it safe? Is Satan gone?”
He did not go to the fence to threaten Lucky tonight. Pot Pie, as Kevin said, Found Out.
Meanwhile Ninja, far and away the most intelligent chicken on the property, decided it was another good day to spend some quality time under the rosebush.
*loosely translated from Rooster, a complex and idiomatic language consisting mostly of insults.
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cheapsweets · 3 days
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The garrulous Slagzogg
My response to this week’s BestiaryPosting challenge from @maniculum
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A little rough this week, but wanted to get it out there (perfect is the enemy of good :p).
Jinhao shark fountain pen with fine, hooded nib, with Monteverde Raven Noir ink, over initial 5.6mm HB pencil sketch.
Process and resoning notes below the cut...
"The Slagzogg marks the watches of the night by its constant cry. No other creature picks up the scent of man as it does.  There are two kinds of Slagzoggs, domestic and wild. Wild Slagzoggs fly high, in a an orderly fashion, signifying those who, far away from earthly things, preserve a rule of virtuous conduct. Domestic Slagzoggs live together in villages, they cackle together all the time and rend each other with their beaks; they signify those who, although they like conventual life, nevertheless find time to gossip and slander. All wild Slagzoggs are grey in colour; I have not seen any that were of mixed colour or white. But among domestic Slagzoggs, there are not only grey but variegated and white ones. Wild Slagzoggs are the colour of ashes, that is to say, those who keep apart from this world wear the modest garb of penitence."
Okay, we know they fly. We know they have beaks. Hence, it's pretty obvious what kind of creature this is...
A pterosaur! Er... Well, there's no mention of feathers (which is probably reasonable...), perhaps I'm just tickled by the thought of medieval domesticated pterosaurs? I probably spent way too much time trying to draw a wattle fence, too. We have a farmer feeding her flock of domesticated miniature azhdarchid pterosaurs, while a few wild slagzoggs fly high overhead, looking down on their cousins below.
I went with azhdarchid pterosaurs since I felt that would be more visually distictive, and fit better in the picture given their more upright and distinctive method of locomotion on the ground. I also love the idea of a slagzogg 'village' cackling (like the one spreading its wings on top of the fence), clacking beaks, preening themselves, and generally making noise!
We also know that 'no other creature picks up the scent of man' as well as the slagzogg... We do know at this point that the bestiary authors love their superlatives almost as much as Pokedex descriptions, but we have no reason to doubt it. So, looking at modern archosaurs with a great sense of smell... Apparently, crocodiles actually have a fairly good sense of smell, but we're looking at birds to work out how best to represent this in a creature with a beak. Now kiwis have nostrils at the end of the beak, vultures also have a great sense of smell (though they completely slipped my mind until I was most of the way through), which left me with petrels... Petrels are diving seabirds with a distinctive 'tubenose' (their nostrils form a tubular nasal passage atop the beak), and use their sense of smell to detect prey (and their colonies) at sea. It's definitely a distinctive look!
What do they use their great sense of smell for (apart from identifying their keepers, one assumes)? Maybe these are truffle hunting pterosaurs? ;)
Actually, my first thought on reading the description was the dog vultures from the Judge Dredd comics (unfortunately I can't find any pictures online), until I re-read the description and noticed the reference to beaks!
This all raises an interesting question about how I (we? I don't want to assume too much) approach these challenges.
I feel like most of the time, I'm trying very hard to approach the prompts with a completely open mind; in many ways, a lot of the fun of these challenges is seeing what designs we come up with compared to the bestiary illustrators, given the same prompts.
Occasionally I'll have a pretty good idea what the creature is meant to be, in which case I will sometimes exercise a form of 'malicious compliance' where I'm either sticking as closely as possible to the description, or more rarely pursuing a parallel direction that I know is not the 'correct' one, in order to avoid drawing anything too close to the animal I believe the prompt is referencing.
Most rarely, I just have a cool idea from the prompt (like the Blisheag) and head off in that direction instead.
Guess which one this is :D
So what I'm also learning here is that I need more practice drawing humans, and drawing pterosaurs!
As an aside, this week I discovered this site;
It's basically a giant repository of links to various images and sites relating to medieval life and culture (so for example, I looked up the links for straw hats to get some medieval straw hat references this week...). There's so many links in here that some of them will inevitably have moved or expired, but it's potentially a really good source of references! I was able to find this image (partway through drafting the drawing) that I ended up taking heavy influence from;
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headspace-hotel · 1 year
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There's a good book called The Forest Farms of Kandy and Other Gardens of Complete Design that focuses on these areas of forest in Sri Lanka that are insanely productive. We forget it now in the west, but in the past a forest could provide so much more than food. You can get fibres for making cloth, coppice trees for straight rods for weaving fences/wattle and daub housing panels/sustainable charcoal.
Worth a read if you can find the time
thanks for the recommendation!!
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halleehalfgallon · 9 months
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scribefindegil · 1 year
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so these are our current hens! the two araucana crosses (white and black) are salt and pepper. they can JUMP, their wings are clipped, but they can still jump over the fence and then get upset that they're separated. they are so incredibly co-dependant on each other. maybe one or two years old
the tiny bantam is tin-tin. this is her retirement home, we took her in when her buddy died of old age. no idea how she's still going, she's like eight or nine years old and has that old chicken colour to her wattle. she refuses to leave her house if it's raining for anything
the final current hen is sporty spice. we were told she was an orpington x bantam but uh. not so sure about that. she has two extra toes (different on both feet) and is so incredibly soft (but always vaguely confused and distressed when she is picked up for scaley leg mite treatment)
our old hens:
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sporty's sister was posh spice, also doubtful she was an orpington x bantam. also very very soft
and our first three were shavers. parsely-sage, rosemary, and thyme! all very friendly (to us), very very dumb (stole a screw out of my hand and ate it - was fine), and inquisitive beasts
Ahhhh what beautiful girls!! Thank u for telling me about them!!
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@from-shepard-to-prince
David hums softly as he works around the farm, fixing and cleaning things up, currently working on a sturdy wattle fence without his shirt on. He pulls hard but slow on one of the branches he's using to bend it around one post and past the next, needing to bend the long but thin branches without snapping them
Snow has been shamelessly staring for five minutes.
“Hey handsome… it’s lunch time.” She calls from the porch. Smirking at him.
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panthertown · 2 months
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after years of gardening I have learned that I hate starting shit from seed indoors, I'm too scatterbrained and also we don't have a very good setup for it. I can't resist buying seed packets tho so I am just going to limit myself to five things this year.
Senna up by the peach tree, to have something dramatic and showy at the top of the hill
Everything else will go in the terraced beds. The purslane and ground cherries will self seed and the lovage is perennial, so that's less work next year. And the terraces are isolated from the rest of the yard by a strip of concrete so the self-seeding plants can't go ape shit and take over.
I will probably save seeds from the molokhia -- I'm told it likes this climate and I'm excited to try growing it. Not the mustard tho every attempt at cole crops has been a flop on this property.
The soil in the terraces should be in good shape this year. Last spring I put in composted horse and sheep manure and a thick layer of mulch. Nothing planted in them now but shallots, sage, and some monarda and sweet grass; the fucking groundhog ate everything else. Including my alpine strawberries wtf. The hardscaped borders of the terraces tho....lol. I need to replace one stone border with a wattle fence and build it up with more soil before planting.
Also here's my seed box, which I woodburned
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limerental · 1 year
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ficletober 2022 day 30
Years after a devastating loss, Geralt manages to find someone important to him again.
content warning for suspected MCD
The cottage sank in a swathe of meadow, grass swaying along the stone path and up over the green roof. The gardens were hedged by wattle fencing and boasted a wild tangle of flowers and herbs, and a bevy of chickens pushed at one another in the dirt. 
A white cat stole under the fence, back legs stretched out and curled tail twitching as it yawned, but then, it caught sight of the stranger on the path and hissed a warning, running off puffed up twice its size.
A witch lived here, the locals said, but their voices had not held the usual vitriol toward strange magicks and aloof sorcerers. This was a friendly hedge witch, a local healer and problem solver, and in a few years, when public sentiment toward magic users grew steadily more negative, they would call her an herbalist and a medicine woman and overlook the thrum of sorcery that hung about her cottage.
The amulet on Geralt's chest buzzed with it, and he saw the little tells of folk magic everywhere. Iron nails and horseshoes and twigs tied together in auspicious shapes. 
He'd come to the right place, he knew, had followed all the directions perfectly, but now that he was here, his feet refused to move the last span of distance across the stone path. The air felt too warm, too fragrant. The leather collar of his worn coat rubbed against his neck, and the amulet hummed in a way that tickled his throat.
"This is stupid," he said to a chicken that scratched closer to him, and it tilted its head, shook its red waddle, and tutted in consideration of his boots. "There's no reason to hesitate. She's only an old witch. She's only–"
She was more than that. Of course she was.
He forced himself to approach the cottage and rapped at the weathered front door. There was a crescent moon peephole carved into the wood, but no eye appeared there, the cottage too shadowed to see anything within. Carved bones and feathers and beads hung on leather cords in the eaves above his head, clanking together in a soft breeze, but the crafter of those wards did not appear. 
Geralt was in the midst of considering whether breaking down the cottage door to investigate further would leave him with magical boils in unfortunate places, when he heard someone humming in the garden.
He passed through a handmade gate with a pulley system that would have clattered shut behind him if he did not grab and still it, and beyond a four foot high mound of squash vines and several trellises of beans, he found an old woman hunched in the dirt.
As she hummed a haunting tune, a large slug inched toward her, eyestalks trembling, and as it drew near enough, she snatched it and added it to a nearly-filled jar at her feet. Several more slugs oozed toward her leaving glistening trails, all held rapt by her soft humming, all meeting the same fate as the others.
The woman had long, heavily, curled silver hair that fell to her lower back, portions of it tied away from her face in looped braids, and she was barefoot as she kneeled, the upturned pads of her feet calloused and dark brown with earth.
Geralt cleared his throat, but the woman did not startle or pause in her work, just kept calling to the slimy garden pests until her jar was full. He waited, arms fallen still at his sides. Finally, she capped her jar, grabbed up her walling stick, and struggled up off her knees to turn to him. She stood hunched forward, braced on her staff, long hair spilling over her shoulders, and her face was lined and marked with liver spots around her temples, her jowls sagging.
Her eyes were violet, shrewd and angry.
"I could curse the eyebrows off that old bat for telling you where I am," Yennefer swore. "Margarita was under clear instructions not to–"
"It was Triss actually," said Geralt. 
"Oh, she won't be so pretty without eyebrows or teeth," the old woman spat. She shook her head and visibly aged further before his eyes, her wrinkles deepening and eyes drooping. "And what do you think of me then, Witcher? Still as beautiful? Everything you were hoping for?"
"Yen," he said and could say nothing else. He had not heard her voice in years, had not thought he would ever hear it again. "Yen, I… Yennefer."
He lifted a hand, cautious, but she let him reach to touch the pads of his fingers to her wrinkled cheek. It was easy to draw close, and she let him, easy to tip her chin up and duck low to kiss her. 
It was a familiar kiss, like coming home. Honeybees hummed above their heads, and chickens pecked at their feet.
He held the kiss for a long inward breath, and when he drew away, her violet eyes blinked glassy with tears. Beneath the cup of his palm, her cheek melted back into the face of a less aged woman, dark hair lightly streaked with silver and only a little wrinkle of crow's feet to show for her great age.
She remained hunched, spine curved down and jaw crooked under his hand.
"I did it," she said, voice wavering. "I managed it. Undid what was done when I was a girl. But I… it didn't change anything. Not really. All I can do now is hide from all of it. Pretend it happened to someone else."
It had been cripplingly difficult, the grief nearly insurmountable, after the disastrous events following the Thanned coup decades ago had stolen Ciri from them. They had searched for years, separately and together, and found no trace of her, no miracle. At last, they had been forced to admit that the explosion of Tor Lara had either turned their daughter's body to vapor or that the ruined portal had spit her out somewhere inhospitable to life.
Ciri was dead. 
Their love had soured in those years, could not survive it. Geralt buried himself in mindless work, endless hunts, and Yennefer disappeared like smoke.
Tracking her here to this cottage had taken him a very long time and no small amount of luck. Even after he had learned Triss still visited her and wheedled the information out of her, Geralt had waited to seek her out, uncertain he would be welcomed, unsure if he even wanted to find her, if they still belonged in each other's lives without Ciri.
But the world was desperately empty without Yennefer. His daily life was arduous and meaningless. Ciri's memory grew more and more distant, the father he had been someone separate from the aimless beast he became. The man who had loved the both of them disappearing the same way Yennefer had.
Geralt pressed his forehead to Yennefer's, breathed in her familiar scent.
"Missed you, Yen," he said simply. "It's good to see you."
"You won't drag me back with you, Geralt," she said. "This is my life now. I'm not the same as I was. I can't be."
"I know," said Geralt. "Me neither."
He barely recognized himself some days. That man was long dead, the one who had loved a little girl and sworn to protect her and failed horribly. He did not quite recognize this stooped and domestic Yennefer, who had laughed at his distant dreams of building a simple home for them, raising livestock, playing house.
"It can't go back to how it was before," said Yennefer, shaking her head. She adjusted her grip on her curved staff and rolled her aching shoulders. "It's impossible. I won't go with you."
"I know," he repeated and asked instead, "can I stay?"
The little white cat had crept up while they were speaking and sat a short distance away, blinking at her mistress and the ugly stranger with the unnerving emanations. Deciding something, she stalked over with her tail raised, meowing, and wove between the stranger's legs. When he stooped to pet her, she politely ignored the tingling of his mutated fingers and rubbed her head against his gloved palm.
The witch and the stranger went into the cottage and prepared for dinner. 
Geralt mumbled that he hoped the jar of slugs wasn't on the menu, and Yennefer threatened to dump it down the back of his shirt. They baked a meat pie with chicken and potatoes and flakey crust and ate a misshapen cake for dessert. 
Then, they turned in together and made love the way they used to, except slower now and quiet, with no artifice and no fumbling. When they finally slept, the white cat curled on the quilt at the foot of their bed and trod on their faces to wake them in the morning.
Their life was simple. Some moments were heavy and weary and pained, but in time, they spoke about her freely, their daughter, and honored her memory and lived on as they were now. Different, changed, but no less able to keep going and find joy and feel whole again.
And one day, a visitor leading a black horse came up the stone path toward the cottage, and a little white cat ran, purring, to greet her.
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