#dunadd

[thesilicontribesman]

Early Medieval Mudstone Carved Plaque from Dunadd, Kilmartin Museum, Kilmartin Glen, Argyll, Scotland

A plaque of mudstone incised with images of deer, eagles, and complex knotwork interlace based on the shape of the cross. It is perforated near the top, with wear suggesting it was suspended on a cord for a long period of time. Its art style suggests a tenth-century date, and it is one of the latest artefacts from the site.

[verecunda]

Sleet was still spitting down the wind, but the yellow bar of a low dawn edged the eastern sky, and as Phaedrus mounted the Crowning Stone, and with his left foot on the hide of the King Horse, set his right into the deep-cut footprint that had held the right foot of every king of the Dalriads since first they came from Erin across the Western Sea, the first sunlight struck the high snow-filled corries of distant Cruachan. Gault brought the spear of Lugh, and put it into his hand in place of the other that he had brought with him from the Place of Life. Conory knotted the sheath thongs of the King’s sword to his belt. Now they were loosening the bindings of the stallion head-dress, lifting it away. Tuathal the High Priest was standing on the horse-hide beside him, holding up a narrow circlet of fiery pale gold that caught the morning light for an instant in a ripple of white fire, like the leaves of the white aspen when they blow up against the sun. Phaedrus bent his head to receive it, felt it pressed down on to his brows. The bronze Sun Trumpets were sounding again; the deep earthshaking note booming out over the marshes and the hills and the high moors, to be caught up from somewhere on the very edge of hearing, and passed on, carrying the word from end to end of Earra-Ghyl that there was a Horse Lord again in Dun Monaidh. - The Mark of the Horse Lord, Rosemary Sutcliff

[smellofwater]

Ballymeanoch & Dunadd

[wild-e-eep]

When your path marker-posts look like this, you know you are in for a boggy time! ^_^

These posts, show the insigna of the Dalriada Project, which built a path network around The Kilmartin Glen area. 

The path was new (and posts completely devoid of lichen) in 2010. 

The path I took - between Cairnbaan and Dunadd - is holding up fairly well. It has some really excellent plastic boardwalk sections, but there are some slippery stone slab sections and some very slippery wooden plank sections, which would make me shy of recommending it for anyone without good balance.

[say-hwaet]

If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter 14: The Callander Brothers Next Chapter: fifteen Summary: In a rare moment of bonding time with the old guard, Arthur, Dutch, and John are caught up in a bar fight. Warnings: Mature themes, language, violence Word Count: ~8,000

The earth is cool beneath you as you lie on your back and look at the sky. The children are taking their afternoon nap, allowing you a quiet moment to yourself. Your eye catches a Quaking Aspen leaf break from its hold and falls softly, gently downward. It lands just beside your face, along with the many others that have fallen, creating a bed of gold surrounding you. 

You’ve missed Idaho. If you were ambitious enough you could travel southward and make it back to Aspen’s Way. You’re tempted, but you made a silent vow that you would stay long enough for Abigail’s pregnancy. Figuring the time and the size that she is, she’s about six months pregnant. She will be having a winter baby. 

You hope to travel south before then. Having a baby in the dead of winter is no picnic, and you’re glad that you don’t have to experience that again.

Unless…

No, you can’t think about that.

You blink to let the thought fade away and rest a hand on the spine of your book as it lays open on your stomach. You found it in your tent one day, shortly after Arthur came back with a broken nose. It’s the History of the Gaels, battles and figures etched into the fabric of time long gone. You’ve always had a taste for history, and you imagine that you would have made a decent teacher if you were given the chance. Thoughts and dreams linger in your mind as you cast your eyes at the blue sky, thinking about your own history, and how it's intertwined with the man who keeps leaving and returning like the seasons.

Since the battle with the O’Driscolls, Arthur has been on more frequent jobs. Things seem to be going well in terms of success, and the gang seems to be sitting comfortably. You’ve noticed that provisions have improved, changing from salted offal and hardtack to canned strawberries and cheeses. You and Pearson have been able to cook things other than stews, like biscuits in the Dutch oven and thick cuts of pan-fried venison steaks.

And with fall now here, you feel the foreboding urgency to ready yourself and your children for winter.

And get what you need to help Abigail prepare for delivery.

Things have become stagnant between her and John. No more teasing and exchanged glances, just silent pauses and awkward stances. You aren’t sure if John rejects the baby, but he isn’t stepping forward to accept it either. Abigail, though tough as nails, carries worry in the lines around her eyes, fearing she might raise this child alone. You’ve taken it upon yourself to be there for her, especially since you understand the loneliness that gnaws at a mother's heart.

You sigh deeply, turning your attention back to the book, and you sit up to get in a comfortable position to read it. You flip the book away from your abdomen, letting it rest in your hands and you tuck some loose hair behind your ear. The heat of the sun is warm against your back, contrasting the cool breeze that sweeps into the leaves of the trees. More leaves fall down like gentle rain but you don’t mind.

Interrupting your reading of Dunadd kings, a gentle rumble calls your name. “Eliza.”

You look up and casting a shadow over you is Arthur. You eye his nose, healed up now, but the shape of its bridge is forever altered. His eyes, still sharp as ever, carry a heaviness—a weariness from the roads traveled and the weight of leading a life that never strays far from danger.

“The children up from their nap?” you ask, shifting the book to your lap, attempting to mask the stir of emotions his sudden presence always ignites in you.

He smiles softly, shaking his head. “No,” he answers, and he eases himself to sit down, moving to sit closer to you. “Just thought I’d come find you before I head out.”

“Oh?” You close your book, your curiosity now found elsewhere. “Another job?”

Arthur shrugs. “Not shoah.” He takes off his hat and the gentle breeze stirs his fawn-colored strands. “But Dutch is only wantin’ John and I to go. So it must be an easy job.” He sets his hat down next to him. “He keeps complainin’ we need more guns. Not enough men to really do the big jobs he keeps dreamin’ up.”

You nod, the news settling like a stone in your stomach. This life, always on the brink of some danger, still refuses to sit right with you, especially with your children to think about. You watch Arthur as he runs a hand through his hair, the lines of his face deepening with thought.

"You worried?" you ask as you set the book down on the ground beside you and bring up your knees.

He shakes his head, bunching his lips as he brings up a knee and rests his arm on it. “Nah, just…” He tucks his chin, as though he can hide his face. “Just been gone a lot, is all. Days at a time.”

You can’t help but chuckle, finding the irony in his statement. “And being gone for almost a year isn’t?”

He peeks at you from over his arm. “Point made.”

You snort, glad that he finds amusement in your teasing despite the harshness of your shared reality. Arthur chuckles—a sound that carries a note of both resignation and fondness, reflecting his complex feelings about his constant departures and returns.

“I’ve never asked…” he begins to say, his voice taking a vulnerable tone. “But when you was pregnant with Alice…”

“She’s yours,” you say quickly. “If that’s what you’re wondering.”

His eyes widen and he quickly shakes his head. “No, I never doubted that, Eliza. She’s too much like her daddy to be otherwise.” He chortles, then he pauses, his eyes searching yours. “I just...I wonder how you managed. Alone, with little Isaac and bein’ with child.” He looks away again. “I was gone for a while.”

You feel a swell of emotions as the memories flood back—the loneliness, the fear, the overwhelming sense of responsibility. But you swallow them back, knowing that it doesn’t do any good to bring them up. “I told you already that I worried about you. You hadn’t been gone that long since back when we first met. I thought the worst had happened.”

“But what about how I left you? After August, after what we–?” he asks again, stopping himself from finishing his question. It’s only ever been words since then. Since he took you in his arms and felt your flesh melt in his hands. You’ve said you love him, but he can’t even get the words to leave his lips. He meant to do what he did, that night, under that hot August moon. 

And lately, he’s been wishing for those times again. 

He isn’t sure what has triggered it. Is it Abigail? Is it the symmetry of circumstances? How is it that John gets off easy while he did what he could by you? 

How could he have left you? Why didn’t he stay?

You watch as he turns his body towards you, his movements gentler, warmer. The look in his eyes is a remnant of the times he looked sweetly at you, like you were the only person in the world that mattered. It’s a look that can both soothe and stir turmoil within you, for it brings with it the weight of old dreams and hopes.

“I got by,” you reply softly as you finally answer, the words feeling inadequate for what you actually went through. “The days were long and the nights longer. But that’s the way it always was. I held onto the hope that…” He brings his hand to your cheek, caressing the side of your face, nearly causing you to lose your words. “…that you would…come back.”

Arthur's touch sends a shiver through you, the warmth of his hand contrasting sharply with the cool afternoon air that surrounds the woods and camp just beyond them. His eyes never waver from yours, and in them, you see a torrent of emotions he's often left unspoken.

"You always was strong," he mutters softly. “How’d the children get so lucky to have a mama like you?”

His words are a salve, yet they reopen wounds that have never quite healed—the pain of those endless nights, the uncertainty of each day without him. You summon a smile, though it feels brittle on your lips. "Just lucky, I guess." you answer, your voice steady despite the trembling feeling inside you.

He chortles at that, nodding softly. “Yeah, I reckon so.” His thumb caresses your cheek and you begin to wish that he’d kiss you. You’ve begun to forget what he feels like, how his lips would taste of tobacco and the outdoors. But he pulls away, leaving a cold void where his warmth had been.

The silence stretches between you, thick and tense. Finally, Arthur clears his throat, his gaze firm and resolute. "Abigail seems to be doin’ alright,” he starts, his voice more candid. “She’s got a lotta people helpin’ her.”

You nod, licking your lips. “Has John said anything to you?”

Arthur shakes his head, disappointed to not have a good report. “He don’t talk to me lately. I think he’s still dealin’ with the news.”

You snort at that. “He should be over that hump by now.”

But Arthur whips his head to look back at you, his brow lowering. “John’s just a kid. And he’s had different raisin’ than me. A different way of seein’ things.”

“But didn’t Dutch and Hosea raise you both as brothers?”

He shrugs his shoulders, the muscles tensing beneath his weathered shirt. "Yeah, in a manner of speakin'. But we took to different parts of their teachin’, and it's shaped us in ways that ain't easy to reconcile sometimes." Then he shakes his head. “But it ain’t that simple. He had some years before joinin’ us. When he was a boah. Those times can affect a person.”

You can understand what he means, the complexities of a harsh life combined with Dutch's charismatic yet often misguided principles. It isn't just a question of right or wrong; it is a question of survival, of loyalty divided like the branch of a split tree. "I suppose we all pick our paths," you say quietly, the breeze lifting strands of your hair like whispers around your face.

“Not always.”

You shake your head, your opinion in this pretty firm. You know it wasn’t your fault that your parents died, but you had the choice as to what to do with your life. You could have chosen a path far different than being a lowly waitress. “We always have a choice, even if the choices aren’t good ones.”

“Tell that to a six-year-old boah who lost his mama, and his daddy hung when he was eleven.”

You look back at him, your brow lifted and eyes soft. “That what happened to John?”

Arthur falls silent and you know that it isn’t John’s story he’s telling. “Arthur…” Your voice is nearly a whimper, and you reach for him, placing your hand on his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me that’s what happened…?”

Arthur shrugs his shoulders, his eyes flickering with a somber glow. “John lost his folks, too. I ain’t special.”

But you are, is what you want to say. You’re special to me. 

But you simply squeeze his arm. “You think that’s why he’s acting like he is?”

Arthur nods his head softly, not meeting your eyes. “He’s independent, like a wild animal you’re tryin’ to tame.”

You can actually see that. You picture a raccoon or a wolf pup, gnawing on anything that moves, distrusting everything. “Makes sense.”

“He takes time to look at things, if you can believe that. He may be a fool, but he keeps a lot inside.”

You blink softly as you observe the sullenness in his eyes, the way he picks at the grass in the space between his legs. “Like you do?”

“I got a journal to hold my thoughts. He got nothin’.”

“He’s got us,” you say, your voice firm but gentle. “He may not think so, but he’s got people.” You look down at his hand and you let your hand glide down his arm to take it in yours. “We didn’t.”

Arthur squeezes your hand, chortling softly. “Yeah, you did. You had…Betty, or what’s ‘er name.”

“Bethy,” you correct, finding delight that he’d even remember her at all. With Arthur’s hand still in yours, you lift it away from his bent knee, bringing it close to you as you observe the healed cuts on his knuckles. “You know…I kinda named Alice after her.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I know Elizabeth is already a name on its own, but her middle name is a combination of mine and Bethy’s.”

Arthur's gaze finally lifts, meeting yours with a flicker of surprise. “That hadn’t really occurred to me. But it makes sense.”

You nod, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. “She was good to me, Arthur. After everything…she took me under her wing when my folks died and was supportive when I became pregnant. She let me make my own choices, but still cared enough to tell me the truth.” You sigh deeply at the thought. You wonder what has become of her, if she ended up with Joe and now helps him run the restaurant as an owner rather than a waitress. “I want to be that for Abigail. She shouldn’t have things candy-coated. Life will be harder for her otherwise.”

Arthur nods, his expression softening as he absorbs your words. He and you both are all too familiar with life being hard. It seems that, with the exception of a few moments, that is all it has ever been.

Arthur lifts his eyes and regards the sky and notices how much time has passed. A soft “oh��� escapes his lips and, letting your hand go, he rises to his feet. “I need to get goin’.”

You watch him stand, tall and imposing against the backdrop of the late afternoon sun. The red hues cast shadows across his features, making them appear softer, almost gentle. “Will I see you soon?” you ask, the uncertainty in your voice more pronounced than you intended.

Arthur pauses and looks back down at you with those piercing marine eyes. “Hopefully sometime tonight, darlin’.”

Darling. There he goes again. You swallow thickly, trying to keep a straight face, and you get up from the soft, leaf-coated earth. “Let’s wake up the children. Say goodbye to them before you go.”

He makes a sweeping gesture towards camp, putting his hat back on his head. “After you.”

You lead the way. Arthur keeps a few paces behind you and you both ignore the stares from Hosea and Susan as you pass them by. Reaching your tent, you pull back the canvas flap slowly and peek inside. Yes, the children are still sleeping.

Isaac, sprawled like a little starfish across his rough blanket on the floor of the tent, snores softly while Alice clutches a patchwork fox you made out of old shirts close to her chest. The sight makes you feel proud, blessed, to be fortunate to have such precious children.

You turn to meet Arthur’s eyes and raise a forefinger to your lips. Taking the lead, you step into the tent and Arthur follows behind you.

You kneel down beside your sleeping babies and bowing toward the floor you lean close to Isaac and run a gentle hand up and down his back. “Isaac…” you beckon. “time to wake up from your nap…”

Isaac stirs, his little face scrunching in a mix of sleepiness and resistance before his eyes flutter open. He looks up, sees you, blinks twice, and then his gaze shifts to Arthur standing slightly behind you. A sleepy smile spreads across his young face.

“Sleep good, partner?” Arthur asks his son.

Isaac's smile widens, and he nods, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with small fists. "Yeah, Daddy," he mumbles, voice thick with sleep but ringing with the innocence and joy only a child can possess.

Arthur kneels down beside you, his presence like a sturdy oak tree in a storm. The warmth radiating off him almost tangible in the cool air of the tent. “Hey there, Alice,” he whispers tenderness seeping into his voice as he extends a hand to gently shake your daughter awake.

Alice stirs, her little body curling tighter around the stuffed fox before her eyes open slowly, adjusting to the dim light filtering through the tent. She blinks up at Arthur, her small face breaking into a sleepy, yet radiant smile as recognition dawns. "Dada…" she gasps in a hushed tone, her arms flinging open as if inviting the whole world into her embrace.

Arthur’s rough hand, hardened by years of life on the run and battles fought, scoops her up, bringing her close to his chest. The little girl’s giggles fill the tent, a sound pure and liberating, mingling with the rustle of canvas and the distant calls of birds outside. “You keep growin’,” Arthur murmurs into her hair, his voice a low rumble of wonder and affection. "It’s like I blink and you grow inches."

The safety of this moment blankets you like the warmth of a sunrise, pushing back the shadows that linger from life's hardships. Yet, the peace is a fleeting companion in your world. You know Arthur needs to say goodbye to them, his impending mission with Dutch already prolonged. 

“Well,” Arthur begins, and you can hear it in his voice. Giving you a knowing look, he hands Alice over to you and you set her in your lap as you remain kneeling.

Isaac senses it too, for his smile instantly disappears. “You goin’, Daddy?”

Arthur nods. “‘Fraid so, partner.” Then he places his palm on the top of his son’s head and gives it a good tousle. “But it’s a short bit. Got some things to do with John and Dutch.”

Isaac's eyes darken with a sudden storm of worry and disappointment. "But when will you be back, Daddy? You said last time—"

Arthur's gaze softens as he looks at his son, the lines around his eyes tightening with sorrow at the promise of uncertainty. “I know what I said, son. But this is different. You live with me, and I always come back. I gotta work to take care of you, your sister, and your mama, don’t I?”

After thinking about it, Isaac nods his head. “Yeah…” His voice trails off into a whisper, heavy with an uneasy acceptance. Arthur leans down to press his forehead against Isaac's, a silent promise passing between them—a momentary bond in the transient life they are currently living.

Arthur lifts his head and pats Isaac’s head. “You’re a good kid, Isaac.” He rises to his feet and groans as he stretches. “You need me to bring back anythin’?” he asks you.

You shake your head as you caress Alice’s head, coiling your finger in the ends of her little curls. “No. We should be fine.”

“Alright.” Arthur turns and heads out of the tent.

The flap falls behind him with a soft thud, and the absence of his presence wraps around you like a cold wind whipping through the trees. You clutch Alice tighter, and she stirs slightly in your arms, wanting to get out and play, now that she’s awake. Isaac rises to his feet and hurries out of the tent.

“Daddy…!” Isaac calls out and sees his father mounting Boadicea.

Arthur looks over to see Isaac running up to him. “Forget somethin’, partner?”

“Can you bring me a horse?”

Arthur lifts his brow. “A horse?” he chuckles, the sound mingling with the dust swirling around Boadicea’s hooves. "Well now, how about we talk about that when I get back?" His voice carries a hint of promise, making Isaac's face light up once more despite his earlier dismay.

"Okay, Daddy!" Isaac shouts, grinning as he takes a step back. “But don’t forget, okay?”

“Let’s go, Arthur!” Dutch calls, steering The Count away from camp.

Arthur takes one last look at his boy and smiles. “You listen to your mama.”

And just as John and Dutch ride off, Arthur kicks Boadicea’s barrel gently and they gallop after them.

***

“So, you gonna tell us what this job is, Dutch?” John asks after the camp is no longer in sight.

Dutch maneuvers so he rides between John and Arthur and looks at each of them, one at a time. “We’re heading into town. The saloon.”

John snorts. “Every time you end up in a saloon, you bring back trouble.” He shakes his head. “Would rather go to church than that.”

Arthur knows he’s joking, but he can’t help but feel a little irritated by his remarks. By trouble, he means Abigail and that doesn’t seem to appear like he feels the way he did when this all started. It isn’t all on Abigail that she got pregnant. John may be a fool, but he isn’t that stupid.

“Maybe goin’ to a church can teach you about forgiveness, John,” Arthur says cleverly. “Maybe about, I don’t know, responsibility?”

“I always thought you hated churches, Arthur,” Dutch says snarkily. “Goin’ all high and mighty on us now?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. He was merely trying to make a point. He knows how the folks in Low Falls had helped you, and while he’s seen his share of corrupt people under the guise of the cloth, he’s come to find that there are still some good people out there. “I just think that he should be a little more understandin’, is all.” He looks straight ahead, the brim of his hat obscuring his eyes. “That don’t make me high and mighty.”

Dutch laughs, a deep sound that echoes slightly in the crisp air around them. “Maybe you need to get out more. You need to be reminded that the world ain't all about feelings and emotions, Arthur." His eyes twinkle with a kind of mischief that only Dutch can muster. John chuckles softly beside them, shaking his head.

As the trio nears the town, the familiar outlines of buildings and streets come into view. The setting sun casts a low arc of light through the town’s main street, giving the final call for townsfolk to either get home or join the nightlife.

Dutch takes the lead, riding up towards the saloon and dismounting before coming to a full stop. He is quite eager, and that does little to settle Arthur’s curiosity. He pulls up beside The Count, and John follows and, after dismounting and tying Boadicea, he catches up with Dutch as he waits at the base of the steps.

Dutch already has a cigar pulled out and he lights it, the orange glow illuminating his face. “You boys ready?” he asks.

Arthur glances in John’s direction just as he steps up reluctantly. “Yeah,” Arthur answers half-heartedly.

Dutch nods, either ignoring the lack of enthusiasm or not even noticing. He inhales slowly, then lets a long stream of smoke escape his lips. “Good.” He then turns toward the saloon’s entrance. “Let’s go in.”

As they enter the saloon, the atmosphere shifts tangibly, from the open, crisp air outside to a haze of tobacco smoke and the scent of liquor that permeates the room. The din of voices and clinking glasses fills Arthur's ears as he scans the crowded space. Men clustered around card tables, a piano player banging away as a woman sings a sad love song. Arthur hopes that she isn’t the reason they’re here. As Dutch steps forward, he sneaks a glance over at John, who shares a knowing look. Arthur wants to talk to him, to see if he has changed at all toward Abigail. He knows he can’t be so heartless as to turn her away. Does he really think that the baby isn’t his?

“Boys.” Arthur lifts his head to see Dutch wave them over just as he leans over the bar counter. 

They walk calmly over, their strides confident and casual. Arthur rests his hands on his gun belt and leans sideways into the counter, facing Dutch and John and keeping his back to the main entrance.

The bartender, noticing his new patrons, approaches the three strangers as he has his fist in a glass, cleaning it with a dry rag. “What’ll it be, folks?”

Dutch holds up his ringed forefinger. “I’ll have a gin.” Then he points to John. “And you, son?”

John shifts on his feet, the uncertainty of the purpose of them even being here still on his mind. He turns around, letting his back hit the counter. “Whiskey.”

The bartender meets Arthur’s eyes and the outlaw feels inclined to answer. “I’ll have a whiskey, too.”

The bartender nods. “Comin’ right up, fellas.” Turning away, he walks down the aisle and begins to pull out glasses that he’s cleaned already.

Arthur's eyes drift around the saloon again, settling on a shadowed corner where a young, strawberry-blonde man nurses a drink. Something about the way he sits while another man next to him, chestnut-haired and larger, about Arthur’s size and build, hovers over a table, playing poker with two others. It is as though the excitement of the poker game isn’t enough to rouse his attention, but the way he clutches his glass shows something else.

With the bartender out of earshot, Arthur leans close to Dutch. “So, what’re we doin’ here? Waitin’ for a lead or somethin’?”

Dutch doesn’t turn his head, but looks at Arthur with a sideways glance. “Can’t a man enjoy a drink with his sons?”

John lets out a chortle. “Oh, come on, Dutch—” And as he turns again he sees the seriousness in his leader’s eyes. “Wait, you ain’t jokin’?”

Dutch’s face remains an unreadable mask as he slowly shifts his gaze from John to Arthur. “No, I ain’t. We are just havin’ a drink.”

John shakes his head. “I ain’t convinced.”

The drinks come quickly over, sliding down the counter. With his reflexes, Arthur catches his drink with a quick flick of his wrist, barely making a sound as the glass settles. The bartender lingers for a moment, eyeing them cautiously before retreating back to his post.

A tense silence falls over the trio, broken intermittently by the clinks of glasses and the low murmur of conversations around them. Dutch finally speaks, raising the glass in front of his eyes the clear drink in his crystal glass, letting it swirl around. “Well, if I had just said to ride all the way into town with me for a drink, would you have come?”

Well, hell, he has a point, but neither Arthur or John, care to admit it.

John merely scowls and picks up his glass of whiskey. “I thought we was needin’ more money.” He throws back the drink and drinks it in one gulp, and nearly slams the glass down. “Don’t have time to sit and drink.”

Dutch grins, his eyes twinkling. “We’re sittin’ pretty, son! We’ve had the best couple months in a good spell.” He takes a cultured sip of his gin, letting the liquid go down his throat. “I figured it had been too long since we, the original members of the gang, had relaxed for a bit.”

That’s it? Arthur thinks to himself. If he wants to relax, he’d much rather be spending it back at camp with his family, or riding in the wilderness on his own. But still, there remains a crack in Dutch’s reasons for coming all this way.

“What about Hosea?” Arthur asks. “If you want the whole old guard, ain’t he an important part of that?”

Dutch rolls his shoulders, taking another sip. “He can get beer back at camp, if he’s so inclined. But I did ask him, in case you’re wondering. He’s tryin’ to stay sober.”

Arthur narrows his eyes, sensing the underlying tension that laces Dutch's words. It isn’t like Dutch to gather them like this without a real purpose. “So, what’s really goin’ on, Dutch? It ain't just about missin’ old times,” Arthur presses, his voice low and wary.

Dutch sets his glass down with a long exhale. “It is.”

Arthur finally drinks his whiskey and sets the glass down with a satisfying thud. "You're lyin'," he states flatly, his eyes steady on Dutch's.

Dutch's smile fades, and the warmth in his eyes cools into something sharper. He leans in, resting his elbows on the table, the jovial mask falling away to reveal a more calculated demeanor. "I ain’t. If you don’t believe me. You can just go on home."

Arthur's jaw tightens, his mind racing through the implications of Dutch's thinly veiled threat. Beside him, John shifts uncomfortably, eyeing both men with a wary expression. “C’mon, Arthur. Let’s just…relax, alright?” He leans into the counter and taps his glass, signaling for another. “I know I could sure use it.”

Dutch nods soberly, patting John on the shoulder. “You certainly do, son.”

Arthur wants to leave, but he knows better than to openly challenge Dutch in a place like this. The rest of the evening drags on with an uneasy calm, the bartender handing out more drinks, and the conversation looping back to old heists and narrow escapes, casting a thin veneer over the tension that Arthur feels coursing through him like a chill.

And, after having a couple more drinks, Arthur needs to relieve himself. He leans away from the counter and pats Dutch’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back.” And he turns to leave.

When he steps out into the cool air, he pauses to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Stepping around the corner, he walks down the alley in search of the outhouse near the back of the saloon. The alley is completely dark, so when he hears an odd scraping sound, he instantly reaches for his gun.

The shadows seem to shift, and his heart pounds against his ribs, primal alertness taking over. His fingers close around the cool metal of the gun as he strains to distinguish any movement in the pitch-black alleyway.

Suddenly, the scraping sound morphs into a lowly growl.

This isn’t human, but animal. And there are only a couple things that growl around here.

“Easy,” Arthur says into the dark, and after putting away his gun, he reaches for a match, hoping that it will offer some light.

He strikes the match with a steady hand, and the feeble light flickers, casting eerie shadows against the craggy walls of the alley. The small flame reveals the outline of a medium, copper-coated beast, its eyes reflecting a golden yellow in the dim light. Arthur's heart settles as he realizes he's face to face with a stray dog.

He sighs, chuckling at himself. “Nearly pissed myself.” And with the limited visibility, he sees a box of rubbish knocked over, evidence of the dog’s search for food. “You hungry, boah?” he asks with a softer tone. The dog growls again, still distrusting of this stranger. “I don’t blame you,” Arthur says as he carefully reaches into his satchel. “It’s every man for himself out here…” He pulls out a wrapped morsel of cured beef and taking it out of the paper, tosses it in the pup’s direction. “Here.”

The dog flinches but doesn’t run away. Instead, it inches forward, nose twitching as it catches the scent of the beef. Arthur holds his breath, not moving a muscle, letting the dog make its decision. The tension in the alley is palpable as the stray hesitates, and then slowly approaches the tossed meat. It sniffs cautiously before finally grabbing it and swiftly running away.

Arthur chuckles to himself and before the match burns his fingers, he drops it to the dirt and steps on it, twisting his boot. With the way through the alley clear, he continues on toward the outhouse.

***

Buttoning his fly, Arthur steps out of the outhouse and makes his way back to the saloon. He thinks to look for the dog, to see if it is perhaps still around, but doesn’t spot him anywhere, not that the limited light helps, anyway. If only it were that easy to tame the wilds of man and beast alike. As Arthur reenters the pulsating heart of the saloon, the clatter and raucous laughter bathe him in a false sense of security. He can't shake off the feeling of being watched, the same eerie sensation that prickled his neck in the darkness.

So when something pokes him in the back, he whips around quicker than he normally would.

A woman stands behind him, wearing nothing but a smile and form-fitted clothing. “I saw you earlier,” she hums. “You ain’t like most men that come ‘round here.”

Arthur isn’t interested and he turns to walk away. “I’m busy,” he excuses flippantly, hoping that will be enough.

But this woman is clearly persistent, for she grabs his arm and pulls. He isn’t about to get aggressive with her, so he merely offers her a tight-lipped smile before shaking off her grip gently but firmly. "Ma'am, I reckon you find someone else to pester tonight."

She hums a laugh, sharp as the click of a revolver, and then lets him go with a flutter of her eyelashes. “How is it pesterin’ when all I want’s a bit of comp’ny?” Her voice laces through the noisy backdrop, trying to pull at the threads of his attention once more.

Arthur shakes his head, stepping away to merge with the crowd swirling around him. It's safer there, in the thrum of life where his back isn't as exposed. But he backs into the stairway leading upstairs, blocking his way of exit.

She grins coquettishly and presses her body against him, letting her hand run up his chest. “You look lonely…” she hums. “I can fix that…”

He needs to get away. With a last resorted effort, he grabs her by the wrist firmly. “I ain’t interested,” he says with a rumble and almost tosses her aside.

She screeches as she fumbles, and this gathers the attention of some nearby men at the poker table. One quickly rises and with the look in his eyes and the gait in his stride, Arthur already knows that this is not the kind of evening he, or Dutch, was ever planning on.

“You messin’ with my Lucy?!” the man roars, his face flush with anger and the veins in his neck bulging. Arthur raises his hands, an attempt to show he means no conflict, but the man is already closing in, fists clenched and eyes wild.

"Was just leavin', friend," Arthur tries, his voice steady despite the chaos brewing.

But the man isn’t in the mood to listen and recoils his arm, readying for a powerful swing. But just in time, Arthur ducks, and the man’s fist makes contact with the stairway’s newel post.

The loud crack of bone meeting wood echoes through the saloon, momentarily silencing the raucous. The man bellows in pain, clutching his possibly broken hand, while Arthur quickly uses the opening to slip away.

But another ‘John’ has already joined in the fight, grabbing Arthur by the shoulder and spinning him around. “Oh no you don’t!”

The man’s fist makes contact with Arthur’s jaw, but thankfully the punch is weak. Not needing much time to recover, Arthur realizes that this fight isn’t the kind he can just leave. This is one he needs to finish.

“You’re gonna regret that,” Arthur growls, and clenching his fist, he punches the man square in the nose.

“Oh, yeah!” an excited roar comes from the poker table, as the tall, chestnut-haired man rises. “I’ve been waitin’ for a moment like this!” And, reaching across the poker table, he pulls the man sitting across from him to his feet before laying a sucker punch right across his jaw. “C’mon, Davey! This the excitement ye was wantin’!”

The sullen man who had been nursing his drink stands up, as though revived, and goes after the closest man nearby, tackling him to the ground with a thud that shakes the nearby tables. The saloon instantly erupts into a cacophony of shouts, the clatter of chairs, and the sharp cracks of fists meeting flesh.

And Arthur, now fully engaged, is caught up in the midst of it, fending off strangers, the sounds of chairs scraping and glasses breaking as the brawl intensifies. The bartender, being no stranger to such events, ducks beneath the counter to hide. 

Arthur dodges another clumsy punch, sending his attacker sprawling onto a nearby table, which collapses under the weight. He scans the room quickly, calculating his next move just as a bottle flies over his head. Following its trajectory, he sees John get jumped on. Dutch, however, is still leaning on the counter with an amused grin, observing the two freckle-faced brawlers. “Did you see that?!” he asks John excitedly, completely oblivious that his so-called son is no longer at the counter, but on the floor, wrestling with one of the poker players. “That’s some fightin’ skills those boys got!”

Arthur has since been occupied, and he grips the neck of his opponent, forcing his head against the wall, and knocks him out instantly. “You alright, John?” he grunts.

“Yeah!” he hears behind him, followed by the cracking sound of flesh contacting bone. He turns around and sees a man fall at John’s feet. “He ain’t gettin’ up for a while.” John’s sigh nearly echoes in the room, the once loud and raucous fight dying down.

Arthur looks around, and sees that there aren’t many guests standing. Breathing heavily, he wipes the blood from his lip and glances around the saloon. The air is thick with dust and the sharp tang of spilled whiskey. Glasses lay shattered, their contents making the wooden floor slick and dangerous. Above the din, he hears Dutch's laughter, rich and booming like thunder. “Arthur…!” Whipping around, Arthur sees Dutch approaching. “They’re about to leave…!”

Arthur’s brow pinches. “Who?”

“Those two boys! They’re clearing’ off the poker table.” He claps Arthur’s shoulder and he winces. “Let’s go introduce ourselves…”

Arthur wants to protest, but Dutch is already making his way over to the two strangers, quickly sweeping their arms over the table to collect the money into a saddle bag. They don’t seem to notice their torn shirts and bruised faces, their focus solely on getting the money.

Arthur follows Dutch through the wreckage of the saloon, the crunching of broken glass and dust under his boots. 

As they draw near, the taller of the two men looks up, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. The younger one, perhaps the more reckless, already has his hand resting casually on the butt of his gun. Dutch, with a confidence that could disarm a raging bull, extends his hand with a grin.

“Gentlemen!” he greets, his grin more Cheshire cat than cordial. “That’s some fine fightin’ skills you boys exhibited back there.”

The taller one, seems almost flattered, the corner of his mouth turning as a toothpick moves from one side of his mouth to the other. He looks at Dutch's hand but doesn’t take it. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, assessing the offer laid before him with a critical eye. "What’s the hand for?" he asks gruffly, voice thick with distrust. The younger man, his hand still hovering near his gun, says nothing, just scrutinizes the outstretched hand before him.

Dutch’s grin doesn’t falter but he does pull his hand back, lifting both hands defensively. “Just what friendly folks do when greetin’ one another.”

The taller man seems disinterested and resumes collecting the coins and dollars on the table. “I ain’t lookin’ for friends.” His tongue rolls heavily, an accent Dutch has only heard a few times in his life. A mix of the wild west and from across the sea, to the highlands of green and blue. Scottish-Americans. The man swings the saddle bag over his shoulder and turns to the younger beside him. “Couple a roasters, eh, Davey?”

The strawberry blond, now named Davey, snickers and kicks the chair in front of him out of his way. “This place could use some decoratin’…!” And he heads for the front doors.

The tall one cackles and follows Davey out, completely ignoring Dutch and Arthur.

While the disappointment is riddled on Dutch’s face, Arthur finds it amusing. “I guess there’s a first time for everythin’…” he teases, folding his bruised arms.

But Dutch isn’t about to give up that easily. He puffs his chest and steeling himself, hurries after them.

Hearing a scuffle behind him, Arthur turns to see John nearly trip over a broken chair as he makes his way over. “What is Dutch doin’?”

“Tryin’ to convert some more members,” he answers dryly as he points to the doors as they swing on their hinges. “Let’s go make shoah he don’t get himself killed.”

“After seein’ how those two boys fight?” John looks toward the door and shivers. “I’m tempted to just walk away now and cut my losses.”

Arthur chuckles and slaps John’s arm. “Shut up. Come on.”

They exit the saloon, the night still waning. The street lamps light up the street, granting enough visibility for Arthur and John to catch up to Dutch toward the two brawlers, his silver tongue already unwinding a new spiel.

“Boys, boys!” Dutch calls out, his voice carrying over the dirt and air to the men’s ears. “I suppose you like to fight often?”

This catches Davey’s attention, for he hesitates after putting his foot in the stirrup to his waiting horse.

He turns, squinting slightly under the brim of his hat, sizing up Dutch with a skeptical eye. "And what's it to ye, huh?" His tone is cautious but intrigued, the prospect of a challenge always sparking interest in his wild heart.

“Davey,” the tall one growls. “We’re leavin’.”

“Well, Mac! This boggin roaster is tryin’ to get in my business!”

Dutch, never one to miss an opportunity, steps closer, his hands raised placatingly. "Not tryin’ to interfere, just offering an opportunity. You fellows look like you could handle more than just barroom brawls."

Davey's eyes narrow, his gaze flickering between Dutch and his horse, his mind clearly wrestling with curiosity and caution. Mac huffs impatiently, clearly not keen on the prospect of lingering any longer. "We ain't got time for this, Davey. We gotta get movin’." His voice is gruff, packed with impatience, but there's an underlying tone that suggests he might just be curious enough to stay.

But Davey seems to wrestle with his decision and he eyes Arthur and John as they approach. “Ye hostin’ a fightin’ ring?” he asks with a jut of his chin towards them.

Dutch twists at his waist, looking back at his unruly sons. “They can fight, that’s for certain, but that ain’t what we’re all about." He waves a dismissive hand, then steps a bit closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "We deal in bigger stakes, boys. Bigger than any pot of money at a simple bar fight."

There’s no turning back, Arthur can see that now. When Dutch’s mind is made up, there can be no rhyme or reason with him. If he’s to leave this town and get back to his family, he needs to help things along. And so, seeing the hesitation on Davey's face, he chimes in with a yarn of his own. “Dutch, we ain’t got no use for these clowns,” he says with a rumble. “If we want more gang members, we best go somewhere else.”

Arthur's words, meant to stir a reaction, do just that. Davey's face tightens, a flicker of pride sparking in his eyes. "Clowns, huh?!" His hand drifts toward the handle of his pistol, an instinctual reaction smoothed by years of brawling and living on the edge. “I’ll show ye—!”

But Arthur is quick to the draw, grabbing his revolver and shooting the gun right out of Davey’s hands. Expecting another fight, Arthur, Dutch, and John steel themselves, taking fighting stances.

But Arthur is soon bewildered, when Davey only looks down at the gun, throws his head back, and laughs. “Well, slap me naked and hand me to Mammie!” He turns back to Mac, his laugh rolling in the night. “Did you see that?! Did you really see that?”

Mac rolls his eyes, but does little to hide his mutual astonishment and he dismounts his horse. “Aye, I seen it.” He walks up to the three men and nods towards Arthur in grudging respect. "Ye got a mean shot, fella. Maybe ye ain't all talk after all." The tension that clung to the air like the heat of the desert dissipates ever so slightly, turning the potential for violence into a mutual acknowledgment of skill.

Dutch, never failing to seize an opportunity, prepares his sales pitch that could nearly hold a candle to Hosea’s silver tongue. “Arthur Morgan is nothin’ but the best. My greatest protege.” Behind him, John scoffs, turning away his head like a jealous kid. “But that don’t mean that we have fully arrived. Success is like a body, it needs all its components to survive. The heart, the brain, the hands, and feet. And right now, we're like a crippled man." Dutch's analogy draws a few chuckles from the group, lightening the mood further. He studies Mac and Davey, pausing for effect. “We need strong boys like you to help us walk again.”

Mac grunts, considering the offer, his gaze shifting from Arthur to Dutch, then back again. Davey picks up his gun from the ground, eyes still wide with a mix of shock and newfound respect. He dusts it off and holsters it slowly, his eyes never leaving Arthur’s face. “Yer one helluva shot, Morgan,” he admits, a crooked smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Mighty impressive.”

But Mac isn’t as easily distracted, asking needed questions. “Say we go wit’chye boys, what’s in it for us?”

Dutch grins, nodding his head as though he anticipated this question. “I'm glad you asked. Aside from the freedom of riding with our gang, you’ll have more excitement than the occasional bar fight, and you’ll encounter actual low lives more worth your time brawlin’.” He leans closer, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper that carries with it a promise of fortunes to be won and lost. "We lay our hands on more wealth than you can imagine—gold, jewelry, whatever you fancy. All in exchange for your loyalty and a bit of muscle work." Dutch's eyes glint under the street lights, like pearls of great price.

“That include lassies?” Davey asks and Arthur feels himself tense at this. “A bonnie lass would ease the deal.”

Arthur steps forward, his jaw setting firm, the muscle ticking as his eyes narrow on Davey. "That ain't part of the deal," he growls, voice low and menacing. There's a certain fire that sparks behind his gaze—a protective blaze reserved for those he considers family.

But Dutch holds out a hand, stopping Arthur. “Arthur’s a little sensitive, he thinks everyone has their eyes on his woman. Little does he know that she ain’t everyone’s cup of tea.” He looks back at Mac and Davey, choosing his words carefully. “But that don’t mean that there won’t be tea to drink.”

Davey grins at this, catching his meaning.

Mac also seems satisfied with the answer, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Fair enough,” he says finally, nodding slightly as if calculating the risks and rewards in his head. The tension between Arthur and the Scottish brothers simmers just below the surface, a silent battle of wills and strength.

“Well?” Dutch asks. “What do you say you ride back with us?”

The brothers exchange a glance, a silent conversation passing between them through the narrowing of eyes and the set of their jaws. After a moment, Davey nods, clapping his brother on the back. "Aye, we'll ride with ye. Could use a bit of a change anyway," he announces, his accent warm but with a hint of skepticism.

Dutch nods and puffs his chest as he claps his hands. “Welcome to the Van Der Linde gang, boys.”

Thanks for reading!

Tag Requests: @photo1030 @eternalsams

[gaukeley]

Das windige und regnerische Wetter hält an. Zwei Tage in Folge hat die Fähre auf die Insel Mousa, wo wir einen sehr gut erhaltenen Broch besichtigen wollen, den Betrieb eingestellt, weil sie wegen des Wetters am Pier der Insel Mousa nicht anlegen kann. Unsere Hoffnung, dass wir morgen, an unserem letzten Tag auf Shetland, noch hinkommen, hat der Wetterbericht eher zunichte gemacht - und die Tatsache, dass man nur bar bezahlen kann. Das würde nun einen weiteren Trip nach Lerwick am Abend oder früh morgens bedeuten.

Da bei dem Wetter natürlich auch nicht an Strand oder Wandern zu denken war, fuhren wir ins Shetland Textile Museum. Hört sich grandios an, ist aber nur ein Steincottage mit drei kleinen Ausstellungsräumen. Drei Strickerinnen und Wollspinnerinnen konnte man hier bei der Arbeit beobachten und Fragen stellen, daneben wurden Shetland Lace (Spitze), Shetland Tweed und Fair Isle-Stricksachen ausgestellt. Heute haben diese Techniken ein Comeback: Auf Yell gibt es ein Zentrum für Kunsthandwerker, die mit Wolle und Textilien arbeiten.

Nach Wollekauf in Lerwicks Stadtzentrum (die vielen Stricksachen haben mich dazu animiert, mir eine Mütze in Fair-Isle-Technik zu häkeln) machten wir uns dann noch auf den Weg zum Clickimin Broch, der am Rande eines Lochs ins Lerwick liegt.

Der Broch ist zwischen 2100 und 2400 Jahre alt - damals nahm der See noch mehr Raum ein, und man erreichte den Turm nur über einen Dammweg. Er ist nochmals von einer Verteidigungsmauer und kleineren Steingebäuden umgeben. Nach ein paar Jahrhunderten wurde die Höhe des Turms verringert und man hat ihn innen umgebaut. Aus dieser Zeit stammen Funde wie römische Glasfragmente, die auf einen hohen Lebensstil hinweisen.

Ein Stein weist Vertiefungen auf, die wie Fußabdrücke aussehen. Möglicherweise wurden die benutzt, wenn ein neuer Anführer ins Amt kam. In Dunadd, Argyll gab es im 8. Jahrhundert eine solche Sitte. Sofern ich vor dem richtigen Stein stand, sind die Vertiefungen heute kaum noch sichtbar.

Und danach buchten wir spontan nochmal einen Tisch in der Fjara Bar, weil Harry hungrig wurde (und dann wird er unausstehlich). Diesmal durften wir auch am Fenster sitzen und die tolle Aussicht bewundern!

Auf dem Rückweg statteten wir dann noch Barbara Isbister, einer örtlichen Strickerin, einen Besuch ab und sahen uns ihre Werke an. Die dachte, als sie uns kommen sah, jemand hätte ein Feuer in ihrem Haus gemeldet :)

[languageyeti1985]

Scotland's Historical Colourful Tapestry.

Step into the captivating world of Scotland's regal history, where tales of courage, royal drama, and ancient artefacts intertwine to shape the very essence of this enchanting nation. 

Join me on a journey through time as we explore the pivotal role of the Scottish Church in the fight for independence and the rise of James VI to the English throne. Delve into the significance of ancient artefacts, such as the mysterious footprints found at Dunadd Fort, in shaping Scotland's identity. 

Together, let us uncover the allure of Scotland's royal heritage and its profound influence on the country's culture.

Robert The Bruce - is more than just a romantic tale of a spider in a cave.

The courageous life of Robert the Bruce and the Scottish Church's support step back in time to the tumultuous era of Scottish independence, where the fearless spirit of Robert the Bruce shines like a beacon of hope in the face of adversity.

I invite you to relive the saga of courage and determination that changed the course of Scottish history. As we delve into the life of Robert the Bruce, we shall also explore the pivotal role played by the Scottish Church, providing unwavering support and moral strength in the fight for freedom.

The idealism and romanticism of Robert the Bruce in the early 14th century, as Scotland was embroiled in a fierce struggle for survival, would seem worlds apart from the imagination of an Australian actor/director in Hollywood looking to make money from Scottish history.

Amidst this turmoil, Robert the Bruce emerges as a knight determined to claim the Scottish throne. Follow him through the highs and lows of his journey, from witnessing his father's loyalty to King Edward I of England to the transformative moment at the Battle of Bannockburn. Discover how this warrior's unwavering resolve and strategic brilliance ultimately restored Scotland's independence for a short time.

The Scottish Church's unifying force, we can not overlook the vital role played by the Scottish Church during this critical period. The Church served as a unifying force, rallying the Scottish people under a common purpose and invoking divine support for their cause. 

With influential figures like Bishop Robert Wishart standing by Bruce's side, the Scottish Church provided:

The Church gave spiritual guidance to Robert and the country.

It fostered a sense of national identity and resilience among the Scots.

It forgave Robert of killing a contender for the throne John Comyn, in the sacred precincts of Greyfriars Kirk in Dumfries.

Despite the bloodshed and brutality inherent in pursuing kingship, Robert the Bruce demonstrated a profound spiritual side. His religious devotion led him to seek penance and forgiveness for the lives lost on his path to the throne. 

In moments of introspection, he would reportedly say, "God forgive me, I have spilt the blood of innocent men" acknowledging the weight of his actions and seeking redemption for the sacrifices made during his quest for the crown. This spiritual depth in Robert the Bruce showcases the complexities of his character as he grapples with the consequences of his ambition and the desire for divine absolution, throughout which the Church was there.

A shared legacy of courage, Bruce's bravery and the Scottish Church's steadfast support left an indelible mark on Scotland's collective consciousness, by which their actions instilled a sense of national pride and the belief in the intrinsic right to self-governance. The legacy of Robert the Bruce and the Scottish Church's support continues to inspire generations, reminding the Scots of their capacity to overcome challenges and preserve their cultural identity.

A very Scottish soap opera, as always, it ends in tears.

A Royal Drama and the complexities of human emotions of Mother and Son and Elizabeth the Virgin Queen's throne, as we enter the captivating world of royal intrigue and emotional complexities as we explore the fascinating tale of James VI's ascension to the English throne, uniting Scotland and England under a single monarch. 

As we unravel the intricacies of this historic union, we find ourselves exploring a tapestry where political ambitions, power struggles, and personal emotions intertwine, shaping the destiny of two kingdoms as they embark on a shared path toward unity.

During the enigmatic reign of Elizabeth I, the Virgin Queen, and her unmarried status, she became an iconic figure, embodying strength and vulnerability. Uncover the secrets behind her refusal to marry, delving into the political implications and the emotional toll of her choices. Witness her resolve as she navigates a treacherous path to maintain England's sovereignty amidst international intrigue and internal opposition.

As we explore the life of James VI, the Scottish monarch whose ascension to the English throne was a pivotal moment in history, let us appreciate the complexities he faced. 

Born to Mary, Queen of Scots, and raised in the tumultuous atmosphere of Scottish politics, James VI's path to the English throne was marked by opportunity and challenge. Follow his journey to England, where he inherits a kingdom facing its difficulties and prejudices.

James VI grapples with conflicting emotions and responsibilities as the royal drama unfolds. Having sent letters to Elizabeth, pleading for clemency for his mother, Mary, Queen of Scots, James is torn between filial duty and the preservation of his claim to the throne.

Despite the emotional turmoil, James VI steels himself, knowing that any action that threatened his place in the ascension to the English throne would be disastrous for his reign. With a heavy heart, he instructs the messengers to take no action that might jeopardise his claim or position. His decision reveals the weight of the crown on his shoulders, as he must balance personal emotions with the practicalities of ruling two kingdoms.

The Scottish soap opera continues to unfold as James VI ascends to the English throne, uniting Scotland and England under his rule. However, the complexities of governing two distinct kingdoms remain, and James must navigate a delicate path to ensure stability and harmony within his realm.

As history weaves its tapestry, we witness the triumphs and tribulations of James VI's reign, leaving an indelible mark on British history. His decision to prioritise his claim to the throne over personal sentiments highlights the harsh realities of monarchy, where duty often prevails over sentimentality.

In the end, the royal drama comes full circle, as James VI's reign becomes a reflection of the human emotions, political ambitions, and power struggles that shaped this historic union of Crowns. His legacy is one of complexity and nuance as he navigated the tumultuous waters of being both a son seeking justice for his mother and a king securing his place on the English throne. In this Scottish soap opera of history, the story ends not in a fairy-tale conclusion but in the reality of the complexities and challenges those who wear the crown face.

Unravelling Scotland's identity through mysterious footprints and a stone.

Journey into the mystical past of Scotland, where ancient artefacts whisper tales of bygone eras. The significance of these relics in shaping Scotland's identity and cultural heritage. Among the enigmatic artefacts, the footprints found at Dunadd Fort in Argyll are an intriguing symbol of kingship and dominion. Let us traverse the footsteps of history and uncover the mysteries hidden within these sacred carvings.

An ancient power centre, Dunadd Fort, perched high above the Moine Mhor, we find ourselves transported to the heart of the Gaelic kingdom of Dál Riata. This once-powerful fort was central to the Gaelic kings' rule from AD 500 to AD 800. Discover the significance of this sacred site, believed to be the place where new kings were inaugurated, symbolising their dominion over the land.

With the mysterious footprints at Dunadd Fort, amidst other ancient carvings, lie the intriguing footprints - a unique feature that captivates historians and visitors alike. Contemplate their purpose and meaning, speculating on their role during real-life inauguration ceremonies. 

These footprints offer a glimpse into a distant past, connecting us to the ancient rituals and traditions that once shaped the Scottish monarchy.

Shaping Scotland's identity with these artefacts of Dunadd Fort and similar carvings at Clickimin Broch in Shetland, we realise that these relics are more than mere historical curiosities. They serve as tangible symbols of Scotland's identity, reminding its people of their ancient roots and shared heritage. The connection to these artefacts fosters a sense of pride and belonging, reinforcing the notion that the past continues to shape Scotland's cultural identity in the present day.

Scotland's history intrigues me the most in the way it has been shaped and told by various external sources over the centuries. From ancient historians like Tacitus to the influence of the Church and England, Scotland's history has often been interpreted through the lens of others, leading to a romanticised and sometimes distorted narrative. This complex interplay of historical perspectives has contributed to Scotland's unique cultural identity and sense of nationhood.

The stories and legends surrounding Scottish history have become integral to the country's culture and heritage. These tales of heroism, struggle, and resilience have helped forge a shared sense of identity among the Scottish people. Despite the need to take some of these stories with a pinch of salt, they have played a crucial role in shaping how Scots view their past and place in the world - me being one of them.

One iconic symbol of Scottish identity, the kilt, is a prime example of how history and storytelling have influenced cultural traditions. While kilts were worn in Scotland for centuries, Sir Walter Scott's romantic novels popularised this traditional garment. His literary works, which often drew on historical events and figures, helped cement the kilt's place as a symbol of Scottish pride and identity at home and abroad.

Another powerful symbol of Scotland's royal history is the Stone of Scone, also known as the Stone of Destiny, which is an ancient stone upon which Scottish kings were traditionally crowned and holds deep cultural and symbolic significance. Its history, which includes being taken to England by Edward I in 1296 and returned to Scotland in 1996, has further reinforced Scotland's sense of nationhood and independence.

Overall, as told through various narratives, Scotland's history has profoundly shaped the country's cultural identity. Fusing historical events with folklore and legend has created a rich tapestry of stories that resonate with the Scottish, fostering a shared sense of heritage and pride in their unique history. 

These historical tales continue to be cherished and celebrated, reinforcing the spirit of Scotland and its enduring cultural identity and enriching Scotland's tapestry woven with stories, unicorns and more than a few drams of whisky.

[thedarkprinceofulaid]

The Danes keeping watch along the ramparts alert Finan and Lagertha first as they were the nearest to them of Uhtred’s family. The Irishman furrows his brows at the announcement, striding quickly up the ramparts with his second close behind him.

Looking out from Dunholm’s wall, his eyes widen at the very impressive fleet of Scotsmen. One ginger haired, muscular warrior in particular that he hadn’t seen since the Summit of Dunadd— one of his very first royal gatherings when he was a mere child. The people of Alba at one time ruled his entire Kingdom, and for the first time in many years, he looks upon his most distant kin. For a moment, he thinks perhaps they are here to discuss an alliance with his new Kingship being the sister region to his own birthright, then he remembers that they mentioned negotiation with Uhtred.

Low risk. The Scots were known for their strong word— they would not dishonorably attack us.

“Open the gates,” Finan tells the guards.

“Tell Uhtred immediately…

Lagertha, please get Revna for me.”

@askuhtredragnarson @lagertha-lothbrok

Why in God’s name did I agree to this?

As the Lady Elspeth rides next to Domnal, her father’s nephew and commander of his armies, she wonders why she would ever agree to such a perilous journey south for the likes of politics. The thought itself intrigued her, but the journey had been strenuous, and she admits that Danes often strike a fear within her despite being raised to banish the heathen at all costs from their lands.

Her father, King Constantin, had sent them on an inquiry mission. The lands of Bebbanburg were sought after, by none other than King Alfred’s infamous Dane Slayer. They were his rightful lands by name and by birth he claims, and so this fight between Dane and Saxon as well as the rumored manipulations of the King of Wessex had finally landed on Alba’s doorstep.

By Constantin’s request, they were to seek Uhtred of Bebbanburg and find out whether or not he was truly untethered from Alfred — and if so, aid in keeping the disputed lands far from the Saxon King’s reach, perhaps with an alliance if it was in Alba’s favor.

As the troop arrives at Dunholm, Elspeth feels a shiver run down her spine at the sight of large Danes on the ramparts. She wears a cloak to cover most of her long blonde hair and the deep blue gown she wears underneath, but she couldn’t possibly feel any more bare surrounded not only by the guardsmen of her father’s fleet, but now of heathens galore.

Domnal would protect her, she assures herself. After all, her presence is in her father’s stead given his recent illness, and surely Danes respected nobility in some regard.

“In King Constantin’s stead, we seek to negotiate with Uhtred of Bebbanburg!” Domnal yells to the Dane’s above.

@askuhtredragnarson @warriorabbesshild @asksihtrickjartansen @libertasutile

[on-misty-mountains]

Dunadd Hillfort, Argyll

This hillfort is pretty impressive as it is, but it also has a special slab with a footprint. This slab is one of the reasons why people visit Dunadd Hillfort. It is associated with the Kings of the Scots tribe Dal Riata and their inauguration ceremony, which according to legend involved the new King stepping into the 'footstep' of his predecessors. What you see nowadays is a cast though, so you don't have to be worried about wearing down something of historical importance. It's still a fun thing to step into that foot shape. I did it and it was precisely the size of my boot. As with the previous day of our holiday, there was a firm grasp of fog and low cloud and particularly early in the morning when we were there, the landscape around the fort was simply non-existent. We still got a pretty good idea. There is an upper level with a citadel at the top and the King's stone slightly below. And there is a lower level with remains of buildings, a wall and a well. There's a natural (or not) break in the rock, which leads in and out of the lower level. A perfect bottleneck for defending the fort. There's parking right next to the fort and it's only 5 to 10 min to get up there. So visiting Dunadd is a no-brainer when in Argyll. 

Head over to Youtube for a video of me visiting this fort and other places in Argyll.

[weighingsoulswithsand]

Dunadd footprint, thought to have been used in coronation ceremonies. 

[voidwrld]

Tanning Salon - Dunadd Hill

[thesilicontribesman]

The Hunterston Brooch, 700CE, likely Dunadd, Argyll, The National Museum of Scotland, Edinburgh

[verecunda]

The Dunadd pin is a cast bronze example comparable to those thought to have been made at Traprain Law in the 2nd to 4th centuries...

Archaeology nerd brain: Oh, well, that's quite interesting. Potential sign of contact between the east and west coast? Though of course there are so many variables, the pin might not be from Traprain itself, and even if it was, it could have reached Argyll via so many channels, it may even have been old by the time it got to Dunadd...

Writer brain: 👀 👀 Oh??? 👀 👀 Contact between the Votadini and the Epidii??? (Or maybe later - Gododdin and Dál Riata?) 👀 👀 👀 But what kind? Trade? Diplomatic relations? A marriage alliance? Spies and skulduggery? Who was wearing a Votadinian pin on Dunadd?? 👀 👀 (Watch me spin an entire novel plan out of this!)

Fandom brain: Well, there are Dalriads in the Frontier Wolves at Castellum, so one of them could easily have come by a pin from Traprain. Maybe one of the Arcani who defected, then made his way back to his own homeland?

[scotianostra]

Good Morning from Scotland 

Dawn breaking at Dunadd hillfort in Argyll and Bute 

📸ellajwear on Instagram 

[babybearecosse]

I took a trip to Ellary, Argyll to visit St Columba's Cave. It's a very atmospheric place, quite spooky. This cave is traditionally said to have been a cell occupied for a time by St Columba on his way from his home in Ulster to his final settlements at Dunadd and Iona. The story goes that Columba applied to King Conal for permission to establish his monastery at Iona. While he waited for the king's decision, the saint stayed here, on the south coast of the Knapdale peninsula. #travelgram #spooky #highlands #scotland_insta #scotlandhighlands #thehighlands #scotlandsbeauty #scottishhighlands #spookyvibes #highlandsofscotland #southernhighlands #pagancommunity #christianity #christian #stcolumbas #pagan #stcolumbans #paganism #stcolumba #travelblogger In one of the photos you can see a St Bridgid's Cross ... this cross was originally derived from the pagan symbol of the Irish goddess Bridgid, one of the Tuatha Dé Danann ... the supernatural tribe of the gods in Irish mythology. So, this cave is a place which is almost exactly coincidental with the Christian absorption of pagan gods and feast days. The co-option of the old ways into the new religon with all that that brought for good and bad. (at Ellary, Argyll And Bute, United Kingdom) https://www.instagram.com/p/CZ39lEUMro6/?utm_medium=tumblr

[niall-noigiallach]

The Nature and Extent of Irish Raids on Britain after the Retreat of Rome

Some basic background: The Roman Empire had been waning in Britain for hears and finally retreated for good in 407 AD. When Rome first conquered Britain, they of course couldn't allow them to retain an independent army, which risked revolt. Rome was their army. When Rome left the Britons were left with their warrior caste carved out of society. Laws set by the Romans had prohibited the natives from bearing arms at all outside of the military. This ban was lifted in 410 AD when Emperor Honorius told the British cities to "look after themselves." Britain was now ruled by local princes, who often petitioned Rome for military aid, begging for help against encroaching invaders. Saxons from the East, Picts from the North, and the Irish from the West, each as vicious as the other.

That is no exaggeration. We often play up the power of the Saxon at the expense of the others. Roman writer Ammianus Marcellinus called the raids a conspiratio barbarica, and the Annals record almost as many Irish and Pictish raids as Saxon ones. Outside the reach of Rome, men were still wild.

The five kingdoms of Ireland (cóiceda) were fighting amongst themselves, but like the Norwegians centuries later, internal conflict never deterred expansion. The most Irish-afflicted areas of Britain were the south west of Wales (Pembrokeshire, a.k.a. Dyfed), Cornwall (Dumnonnia), and Argyll (Dál Riata). How extensive were these raids? They were settlements. The ruling dynasty of Dyfed came from Leinster. Many places such as Dyfed or Lleyn were bilingual with Gaelic, at least among the nobility.  Many ogham stones from this area (the most in all of Britain) are written in Gaelic, not Brythonic. Many place names in Wales to this day derive from Irish or reference Ireland, such as Llyn Iwerddon, "Lake of Ireland", in Caernarvonshire. Another is Dolwyddelan (Dole-with-eh-lahn), which derives from Gwyddelan and Gwyddel, which is a Welsh term for a Gael or Goidel. Many such terms. A Welsh poet might call another poet's work "diseisnig" and "diwyddelig", that is, untainted by English or Irish. But make no mistake, the Irish in the end left no major genetic impression on the Welsh population. In this instances it was merely a temporary occupation of the upper classes by nobles funded by Irish kings.

The raids of the Irish did not begin once the Romans left. It was continuous, and the Romans and Welshmen had previously constructed defensive forts at Caerleon and Caerwent, and later at Cardiff. A fort at Segontium was used to guard the Roman copper mines on Ynys Mona from the Irish raiding parties.  Nonetheless the Irish broke through once Rome left. Cormac's Glossary tells us the following:

"The power of the Irish over Britain was great, and they divided Britain between them into estates... and the Irish lived as much east of the [Celtic] sea as they did in Ireland... and their dwellings and their royal fortresses were made there. Hence Dind Tradui... the triple rampart of Crimthann Mór, son of Fidach, king of Ireland and Britain as far as the English Channel... and they were in control for a long time, even after the coming of Patrick."

Now what could this mean, that the Irish lived as must east of the sea as west? Perhaps the Britons, like the Picts under the Gaels and the East Britons under Saxons, began to call themselves "Irish", while maintaining a Welsh underground identity. We have to remember that after Britain had been militarily and culturally dominated by Rome, it was easy for barbarians to impress a new culture onto the Britons. The Romano-Britons spoke Latin (mostly) and wanted to have Roman culture, but this was a one-sided and unstable relationship ripe for replacement with a nearer culture.

The territories of Devon and Lancashire were strongholds against the encroaching Irish powers, stopping the Gael from traveling further inland or northward. The threat of an Adventus Scottorum kept the western kings awake at night. The Severn Sea (modern Bristol Channel) was the stage for major Irish settlement into Devon. Linguistic and historical evidence shows that most of the Britons who fled to Brittany originated in Devon, contrary to Gildas' accounts of Central and Eastern Wales. The traditional narrative of Saxon invaders forcing the Britons of the Welsh Marches across the sea can't be true. The Armorican migration was occurring in the 4th, 5th, and 6th centuries, but Saxon power hadn't reached Wales until the after the Battle of Mount Badon c. 500. Yet the Roman Armoricans had begun allying with and giving land to immigrant Bretons in 409 AD, to bolster their numbers against a continental Saxon scare. The eastern Anglo-Saxons could not have been the cause of the Breton migration, but the western Irish were. The Irish settlements and raids on the Cornish coast of the Severn Sea depopulated the area of its inhabitants. When the Anglo-Saxons reached the area, there were no Celts to retain place names, hence the strange preponderance of English toponymy in Devon.

North Wales and Cumbria (Rheged) formed twin kingdoms to repel Irish and Saxon raids. The south called Deheubarth meaning "the Right Hand", and the north called Gwyr y Gogledd meaning "the Left Hand." These brother peoples often relied heavily on each other for defense.

The Irish settlement of Argyll and the surrounding Isles left a much more distinct genetic and cultural mark. The raiders into Argyll and Galloway established the kingdom of Dál Riata, with its power center at the modern ruins of Dunolly Castle at Oban, and it's monastery at Iona. Before the invasions into Argyll in the 5th century, all of Alba was ruled by Picts and Pictish families. In the East, Picts ruled until the 9th century. The "Picts" (which is a Latin name) likely called themselves Cruithni, and spoke a maybe-not-Indo-European tongue, though it had much in common with Brythonic. The conquest of Pictland began when King Fergus Mór and his two brothers led a fleet of 150 men to conquer a number of Western Scottish Isles. They set up their clifftop fortress at the Rock of Dunadd, and expanded eastward from there. The next great King was Aedán Mac Gabráin, who went out to conquer the Orkneys, Hebrides, and all of mainland Scotland as far as Perthshire. These maps don't really show it, but Aedán won a battle in the Orkneys against a Pictish King in 580 AD and won. Dál Riata was powerful. A few generation after the death of Aedán, the Dál Riatic Kingdom was starting to conquer or merge with the Eastern Pictish kingdoms to form the modern kingdom of Scotland. Aedán's immediate successor, Eochaid Buide, was already called "Rex Pictorum.” Irish Gaelic (which would morph into Scots Gaelic) was the language of the royal courts in Pictland, and eventually trickled down to the lower classes, as languages usually do. Folklore also spread from Ireland into Pictland; Scottish folklore today is from the same root as Irish. And although the Ulster Irish kings left a large genetic mark on the western highlands and Galloway, the main expansion of the Irish was political, linguistic, and cultural, adopted by the Picts or Britons from above.

Infighting between the Ulaid dynasty within Ulster, along with later Viking maritime power, eventually severed the Scottish Gaels from the Irish Gaels, and Dál Riata was free to focus its attention on uniting Scotland against Vikings and Bernicians. And for some reason, the Irish raiders never had much interest in Rheged. It was left mostly untouched, even in the early days. Though today this area has a strange preponderance of Scandinavian place names instead of Saxon ones. This is because in 902, the Irish Kings repelled the Vikings from Dublin, who then migrated across the sea into Cunbria and Rheged. So there was no difficulty in physically going there, but for some reason the Irish didn't.