Gregory Peck, Where Are You?

This has been a mild day in which a respectable amount of work was done. Several little tasks were brought forward. We also went into town a few times for shopping, dog exercising, shellfish gathering, and finally to watch the film War Horse.

This is Lower Town, Fishguard at low tide. It's a peaceful place that manages to hold its beauty in any weather or as a bucket of mud like you see it here. I've never been here to find it noisy or infested with obnoxious people. We brought away a heavy sack of mussels and limpets as is our custom, Casey met a very lively and larger dog who fell in love with him, and I listened to a good radio play as Ceridwen shopped and the dog napped beside me.

One should be careful in choosing a film to watch. War Horse had me feeling as corny as Kansas in August, as the old song goes, but discussing it afterward brought out more faults than I'd noticed. I try not to be unnecessarily harsh in criticizing films, since creating one is so complicated.

It was good to support a struggling independent cinema and to get some fresh night air. The film would be perfect for an airline to show on the back of the seats for free, but the First Class passengers might not tolerate it well. Those cameras really capture colors and sharp details quite well these days. War in a Hollywood movie is much nicer than even just reading about it in real life, and it's amazing how many cliches can be squeezed into a few hours of footage.

Poor Ceridwen felt as though she'd been drowned in a lake of syrup. "The thatch was made of plastic," she said, "and they were burning oil lamps in the daytime!"

In 1956, Gregory Peck had a gig right here in Fishguard Harbor, chasing a huge rubber whale. The scenes were pretty damned authentic and the actor was well-liked by the locals. Here is the climax from one of my favorite films when I was growing up --I never get tired of it.

Shoot the horse. Long Live Moby Dick!