Dartmoor's hill ponies have grazed those commons for longer than there has been a country called England. Fewer than a thousand are left, down from six thousand a generation ago. The United Nations listed them as endangered in 2023. So, naturally, the body charged with protecting nature has decided to get rid of nine in ten of the survivors. There is a process, obviously. Natural England's new grazing contracts now count the ponies in the same bucket as the cattle and sheep. A commoner with a fixed quota has a choice: keep a semi-wild pony worth nothing at market, or use the slot for a lamb he can sell. Guess which one survives the spreadsheet. The rest are gathered in the autumn drifts, and with nowhere to put thousands of unhandled moorland ponies, the next stop is the abattoir. Natural England would like it noted that it has not ordered a cull. It has merely built a machine whose only output is a cull, switched it on, and handed the bolt gun to a farmer so the fingerprints land elsewhere. Very tidy. And now the funny part. The pony is the best tool on the entire moor for eating Molinia, the coarse purple grass strangling Dartmoor into a brown monoculture. Cattle and sheep won't touch it. The ponies hoover it down and clear the ground for the orchids, the wildflowers and the insects behind them. Remove the ponies and the moor chokes into precisely the lifeless scrubland the contract was meant to prevent. So the conservation strategy, in full: protect the habitat by deleting the animal that maintains the habitat. A masterclass. Better still, Natural England's own Fursdon review looked at this exact question and told them, in plain English, not to lump ponies in with cattle and not to cut pony numbers. They read it, praised it, said they fully supported it, then did the precise opposite. Four thousand years these animals have run Dartmoor with no committee and no contract. They could be gone within one, and the people who did it will write it up as a win for nature.

1984 BC?

Good luck, you're going to need it.

I was half expecting lightning to hit the tree behind her.

More up-to-date info: x.com/GyllKing/status/206422…

A rare glimpse of an abandoned haggis farm on Rannoch Moor, the now flooded holding pens visible from above The farm closed in the late 1800’s due to criticism around intensive breeding methods, and the owners instead switched to mining tartan, although that venture didnt last.

En France un accident se produit tous les quatre jours à un passage à niveau. Reportage TF1 dans le Morbihan où le comportement des gens est totalement inapproprié aux passages à niveau.

A breakfast?

They are - they are progressing to the exit.

Huge cheers after splashdown from the international team in the Orion Mission Evaluation Room at @NASA_Johnson 🥳

Welcome home Reid, Victor, Christina, and Jeremy! 🫶 The Artemis II astronauts have splashed down at 8:07pm ET (0007 UTC April 11), bringing their historic 10-day mission around the Moon to an end.

🚨 The emperor penguin is now officially endangered. Climate change is shrinking the sea ice they depend on to breed, and when it breaks too early, chicks drown before they even have a chance. Some colonies are collapsing completely.

Artemis II launch… caught in my glasses reflection

That's us! 🌍 The Artemis II crew captured beautiful, high-resolution images of our home planet during their journey to the Moon. As @Astro_Christina put it: "You guys look great."

How long did it take to realise it's fake?

Took me way too long to realise that’s a shower and not a Dalek…

Cherry Wainer is on organ with Don Storer on drums playing the Peter Gunn theme in 1966

Rest in peace, Patricia Routledge 🙏🏻 In memory of her, I encourage everyone to read these words of hers from February last year. Whether young or old, you're bound to get something out of it. ***** "I’ll be turning 95 this coming Monday. In my younger years, I was often filled with worry — worry that I wasn’t quite good enough, that no one would cast me again, that I wouldn’t live up to my mother’s hopes. But these days begin in peace, and end in gratitude. My life didn’t quite take shape until my forties. I had worked steadily — on provincial stages, in radio plays, in West End productions — but I often felt adrift, as though I was searching for a home within myself that I hadn’t quite found. At 50, I accepted a television role that many would later associate me with — Hyacinth Bucket, of Keeping Up Appearances. I thought it would be a small part in a little series. I never imagined that it would take me into people’s living rooms and hearts around the world. And truthfully, that role taught me to accept my own quirks. It healed something in me. At 60, I began learning Italian — not for work, but so I could sing opera in its native language. I also learned how to live alone without feeling lonely. I read poetry aloud each evening, not to perfect my diction, but to quiet my soul. At 70, I returned to the Shakespearean stage — something I once believed I had aged out of. But this time, I had nothing to prove. I stood on those boards with stillness, and audiences felt that. I was no longer performing. I was simply being. At 80, I took up watercolour painting. I painted flowers from my garden, old hats from my youth, and faces I remembered from the London Underground. Each painting was a quiet memory made visible. Now, at 95, I write letters by hand. I’m learning to bake rye bread. I still breathe deeply every morning. I still adore laughter — though I no longer try to make anyone laugh. I love the quiet more than ever. I’m writing this to tell you something simple: Growing older is not the closing act. It can be the most exquisite chapter — if you let yourself bloom again. Let these years ahead be your TREASURE YEARS. You don’t need to be famous. You don’t need to be flawless. You only need to show up — fully — for the life that is still yours. With love and gentleness, Patricia Routledge ***** Once more, rest in peace. 🤍