Sunday, 13 March 2016

An Old World Clock

I groped my way into the Turret which it occupies, and saw before me, in a kind of loft, what seemed to be a great, old oaken press with folding doors. These being thrown back by the attendant (who was sleeping when I came upon him, and looked a drowsy fellow, as though his close companionship with Time had made him quite indifferent to it), disclosed a complicated crowd of wheels and chains in iron and brass, — great, sturdy, rattling engines, — suggestive of breaking a finger put in here or there, and grinding the bone to powder, — and these were the Clock!  
Its very pulse, if I may use the word, was like no other clock. It did not mark the flight of every moment with a gentle second stroke, as though it would check old Time, and have him stay his pace in pity, but measured it with one sledge-hammer beat, as if its business were to crush the seconds as they came trooping on, and remorselessly to clear a path before the Day of Judgement.
Charles Dickens, Chapter 6, Master Humphrey's Clock.
In the early twentieth century there lived a man who went about reclaiming land from the Vembanad Lake, inventing propelling mechanisms and building clock towers.

All it remains of the clock tower that we had at home is a pen sketch of it by my mother and this brass plaque that was attached to it. (One had to climb the stairs to get to the winding mechanism that had to be wound every day.)
  1. The shot has cut off the left hand side of the sketch which is why the tree is shown only half way up. I didn't notice the way the shots were cutting a portion of the sketch until I sat down to edit them months later - such a shame!
  2. The sketch seems slightly blotched in places as it is the photo of a framed picture and had some glares.

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