#gradient descent you are like a fruit fly to me

[dead-sp1der]

I love hearing Martyn talk about the Misadventure NPC AI's because it's still definitely Generative AI, just probably not the unethical kind

If it's a handcrafted Language Model (which.. wow that's crazy impressive) that's trained on non-stolen data, I can't see an ethical reason to not use it

Still very much Generative AI tho 😭 <3

[whitherliliesbloom]

yet with each descent do we rise again

[ ffxivwrite2020 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #26 - when pigs fly ]

[ alphinaud/wol ]  ★ [ 2,548 words ]  ★ [ fairy au ]

illya skawi & alphinaud leveilleur. in an au where il mheg is home to a nation of fae folk, all of whom are ruled by titania illya. mentions @ancientechos​‘ laurelis, @firstblesssed​‘s elletha and @windupnamazu​‘s lunya. contains the origins / lore of porxies in this au. i also reveal illya’s fae name for the first time in this fic but who really cares-

if porxies were the manifestation of the impossible being made possible, why did the sight of them bring titania so much grief?

He’s seen no skies clearer than one that hung over Il Mheg, a testament to the majesty that was the fae folk and their magics, no doubt. Despite being told again and again by no few fairies and pixies alike that their kingdom was not how it used to be - her luster tarnished by the leeches that were the mortal race and the marks they’d left upon the land’s beauty - he, in all his ignorant mortal bliss, still believed the kingdom of rainbows to easily be the most beautiful place he’s had the fortune to set foot upon. 

And as he greets the stunning soft gradients of blues and cotton candy white that was the sunny morning sky, looking up and being momentarily blinded by the scorching, yet welcoming sun above, he hears a flutter and a twinkle behind him, the back of his neck tickled by a light gust that urges him to spin around as quickly as his artificial rhotano blue wings would allow him.

“'Q-Quel amrun, Alphinaud!” A voice of exceeding melody, one that rose in the air and echoed in his ears like the gentle rustle of leaves upon the wind greeted him in a language he had not yet mastered, and he finds color rising up his cheeks as he takes far too many seconds to find the words to respond.

“A-and good morning to you, your majesty.”

Evidently pleased at his understanding her verbal fae tongue, the queen smiles wider than he’s accustomed to, and the radiance she exudes as if she were a beam of pure, unfiltered light almost sends him reeling. 

“’Tis good to see fae blood still courses through your veins.”

Alphinaud bites back a chuckle, and he resists the urge to speak as he bows, watching beneath a curtain of thin lashes as the queen turns her head to breath in the scent of morning dew before directing her tender gaze towards the young man.

His gift - and by extension his duty was still something of an awkward point of conversation between him and the ruler of Il Mheg, despite knowing full well that this arrangement, as gloomy as it made him to remember, was only temporary. Once he finds the cure and the source of the curse, and fulfills his responsibilities as far as it pleased Titania, he will surely be made to leave. Il Mheg was no place for mortals, not after what they’ve done to the fae. 

And he was still very much mortal, despite the ring of silver and golden flower embellishments he wore upon his finger, and the gossamer wings that sprouted from his back. 

“What’s on your schedule today? Helping Beq Thon with those awful weeds again?” The queen asks, swinging her dainty little legs as she hovered just several feet above marble. Her crystalline wings flutter gently with uncanny grace like petals, and from their tips fell sparkling dusts like thistledown that swirled and were carried away with the chilly lake breeze. The flap of his wings by comparison were harsh and clumsy, and he’d very understandably been called a disgrace to all fairies by all who saw his poor attempts at flying as they do. 

Thankfully not, he almost answers, but his conscious is immediately assaulted by a pang of guilt as he remembers the grace in which Illya had granted him stay within her kingdom, and the boundless amounts of kindness that not only she, but the other residents of the fae nation has shown him thus far. Instead he manages something of a forced smile before shaking his head. “I came to see if you needed any sort of assistance, your majesty.”

“Me?” The young fae widens her eyes, hand rising up to rest upon her chest. The limpid silken scarf that hung from her hands ripple upon the wind with her movements. “Oh.. No, no.. There’s nothing I need help with.”

“Is that so? Have you some sort of business outside the castle, then? If you do then, surely, there’s some way I can help you.” 

A dust of pink spreads across her pallid cheeks and up to the tips of her pointed ears, but she is quick to hide her blush beneath the light shadows of her pure white bangs

“I-I was... just here to feed the porxies.”

“Porxies?”

As if summoned by the call of their name, a passel of squeaky porxies burst through the bushes, their sizeable ears flapping as they gathered around the queen and oinked in delight. Alphinaud is taken aback for but a moment, mouth agape as he watches Titania toss her pearlescent cane into the air. It sparkles for a moment before it morphs into a hefty palm-sized satchel that lands safely in the queen’s palms. 

“Here you go. There’s enough for everyone, so don’t be greedy!” 

Illya beckons to the porxies with a wave as she opens the sack, and the pungent smell of grime, rotten fruits and crushed flower paste sends him gasping and grimacing, to which the queen could only flash an apologetic wry smile for.

“Ah.. I’m sorry for the smell..  Their diet is rather um.. peculiar. ” 

“N..No! Pray.. forgive me my response.. I was just.... surprised..” Alphinaud pauses, watching as the porxies feasted happily upon their breakfast completely unaware of the stench. “I never would have thought their appetite would be whetted by such... waste.”

With large chomps and nibbles, the porxies begin to disperse in number as they eat their fill from the queen’s gentle palms, the grime of their feed leaving a dirty black stain upon her otherwise supple, clean hands. 

“They say one man’s waste is another’s treasure...” Illya murmurs as the second to last porxie in line flutters away, leaving the last of the pack to eat off the scraps of the scraps slowly, but gratefully. “W-well.. porxies, in this case.. But they help with cleaning up the trash by eating them.”

Despite the familiar euphony of her words, and the kindly gaze she held towards the lone porxie, he sensed a touch of melancholy, of a sadness that he knew she would hate for him to notice. It certainly must not have been the queen’s intentions - he knew it wouldn’t have been given her tendency for hiding any emotions that she deemed to be unqueenly of her. And if the accounts of her friends and advisor were to be trusted, it’s that Titania of all people bottled up a mountains worth of burden and sorrow inside herself - one she refused to show to anyone. 

Alphinaud is silent as he watches her, glowing and mesmerizing in her beauty as she gently strokes the top of the porxies head as it squeals gleefully at her. He can swear the sun’s rays grow twice more incandescent as they shone through her shimmering, glassy wings in pink and purple hues like stained glass, only second to the warm, glittering hues of her eyes that reminded him of a field of lavender and violets. 

She was ever like a beacon of effervescent light - not just to him, but to Il Mheg and her people. And yet she would not allow herself even the luxury of grieving, of showing her sadness to the world for fear of going against her duties. The divine royal sparkles that shone in her eyes were now clouded by the rain, of the hidden words she’s stopped herself from saying for who knows how long now.

And it pained him, enough to drive him to insolence, and he wouldn’t bemoan her if she thought to have him banished on the spot for it. 

“What has you feeling so downcast, your majesty?” 

His question sends panic rippling down her spine, and for a moment the queen gasps as she turns her head up to stare wide eyed at him. She thinks to shake her head furiously before flying away.. but caught in the headlights of his concerned, and frustratingly sincere gaze she gulps, and finally allows herself to frown.

It takes a lengthy silence, one accompanied by chirping and the distant chatters of the pixies, to be true.. but his attention is focused squarely on the lady, who places her palms on either sides of the porxies cheeks and narrows her eyes with a heart wrenching, upsetting look of defeat. And when she finally speaks, her voice no longer held the tone of a celebratory songbird, but like little windchimes, barely louder than a whisper as it rang amidst the drizzle.

“Do you happen to know where porxies came from, Alphinaud?”

The question causes his head to tilt curiously, and he answers with an honest ignorance.

“Are they.. not simply another type of fae?” 

“Well... yes and no. They’re um... like you.” Illya strokes the porxies skin lovingly, as if in apology for speaking of it. But its beady eyes remain bright and naive as it looks up at its queen as if she meant the entire world to it. “They’re not fae born.. They were made into fae by a Titania.” 

The queen closes her eyes, heaving a sigh through barely parted rosy lips.

“There was once a saying.. A figure of speech that I believe is of mortal origin.. but it was spoken by fae folk once too. ‘Iire beag roi’.. Referring to the concept of impossibilities.” Slowly Titania leans her head forward to nudge the porxies snout with her forehead, a sorrowful sign of affection before it sounds out a snort of delight and flutters away. 

“Titania had a son - Ose Iala was his birth name.. But he always preferred the names of mortals far more than one of his fae. And he kept that fascination of mortals and the outside world even as he grew older, old enough to voice out his disdain for our rules against executing mortals who stepped inside Il Mheg soil.

‘The day mortals and fae will ever coexist is the day pigs will fly’, Titania did say with a mocking glare towards Ose Iala.. and the prince, in his fury towards his father’s stubborn intolerance, casted a spell upon a herd of pigs that wandered into Il Mheg from a farm in Lakeland.” 

Alphinaud’s heart sinks into his stomach as he listens, expression awash with pity as he looks upon Titania tilting her head up to the sky, galaxy worn eyes tired and wary. And though he needn’t hear the rest of her words to know what.. or who exactly she was referring to, he allows her to pour what little bits of her caged heart she had the courage to share. 

“My father.. He made the impossible possible, preached that there was no such thing as impossibilities to his people and told me the same when I was but a sprout who barely just learned to fly. And he made the impossibility of fae folk existing with mortals a beautiful, wonderful reality.” 

Il Mheg has changed more within the past 3 generations than it did with the countless millenniums before then, for better or for worse.. The name of the Titania who brought about this tide of change was scorned by most of the fae kingdom and forgotten by the mortals who had seen Il Mheg as nothing but pools of gil and resources they could steal from. 

But that was a cruelty and a despair that has wrongfully be thrust upon the Titania of the present - of the one who bears the heaviest burden of them all. For beneath the opulence of her glamorous, glittering dresses and the pristine gemstones upon her flowery tiara, she was but a young girl - a fae equivalent to a mortal of teenage age, who has lost family and freedom both. And above all else, the lonely little fairy was now shackled with duty, of her obligations to undo the mistakes Ose Iala had done to blemish their kingdom. 

“And yet... despite the miracle I’ve been granted, I’m worthless as queen. I cannot save my people.” Her hands clench into fists, and blood drains from her knuckles and threatens to pour out of the cuts her nails leave as imprints upon her palms. “Forget Feo Sul, I...I’m not worthy of bearing the mortal name Illya either.”

Alphinaud mutters her name beneath his breath, and the sweetness that is left on the tip of his tongue as he does causes his heart to skip a beat. Feo Sul. The flower of treasures. Despite what Titania might say, the young scholar knows better than any other that her name fits perfectly better than any other fae or mortal he might ever meet. 

“But you have saved your people. The fae are able to find hope to renew Il Mheg because of you.” With a furrowed brow, Alphinaud hovers forward, daring himself to lift his hand and rest over clenched fists. 

“Elletha tells me of how much you work to keep the infirmary running, casting your magics so hard that the palms of your hands would start burning and she’d have to stop you. I’ve heard from so many pixies that the fairy that appears at night, Lunya... she was once a mortal that you saved from death despite her being a plunderer.” His words at once cause her eyes to water, but also soothes the tension in her hands, and she finds her fingers relaxing against his reassuring grasp. 

“And Laurelis.. Whenever I speak to her, she wouldn’t stop talking about you! About how you sacrificed some of your own royal blood to feed the soil of Timh Gyeus on the first day after your coronation so that flowers would bloom again.. Or how you dove head first into the longmirror lake to rid the waters of the litter and oil.” 

“A-Alphinaud.. P-please-”

“Or how you caught frost on your wings as you dug through the snowy mountains for a week looking for tsasan setgel.. Or the way you ripped the cursed thorns the Fuath had grown around the pillars of Lyhe Ghiah as a prank with your own bare hands because you could not bear the thought of having anyone else do so! ” 

His hand tightens its hold, fingers laced and intertwined with the gaps of her own as he moves closer and raises his voice. So that she will hear him, so that she will listen, and face the reality of her own kind deeds even if she’d refused to thus far. 

“You’re the miracle Il Mheg needed. The fact that you yet stand, strong and tall as you are despite everything you’ve been through, that is a miracle above all others.”

The tears that trickle down her cheeks and falls off her chin glisten as little gems, reflecting off the rays of the morning sun with a rainbow hue that he feels tempted to catch with his fingers, were they not occupied with holding hers. And the tiny panic he feels in his beating heart dissipates as when she sniffs, and forces a glowing smile upon her face.

“ Iire beag roi.. How silly a notion, I’m nothing of the sort.” 

And Alphinaud smiles back, eyes narrowing as he feels her fingers wrap around his in return. 

“ gu dearbh. Pigs already fly, remember?”

[olwog]

So Peeps. The weather is much improved but this one is a biggy. We’ll learn to tell the difference between a crow and rook, struggle with an ascent at the end and hear some boys get a bollocking for not being team players whilst on the Duke of Edinburgh Award scheme.

We leave Osmotherley via Rueberry Lane towards Lady Chapel. If you’re not a regular rambler or reader of this blog, the walk to Lady Capel is beautiful in its own right. Just start at the cross in Ozzy and walk to the beautiful little church above Mount Grace, spend a few minutes just thinking or even, not thinking, then gently walk back down again taking in all of the sights of the Vale of Mowbray and the Pennines in the distance, you really won’t be disappointed.

We’re not calling in today and walk down this typical English lane with the odd bluebell still in attendance in the hedgerow complimented by cowslips and some early foxgloves. The hedges are fully endowed with leaf now and I’m always amazed at the speed that they transform themselves from barren twigs to lush green barriers delimiting fields and lanes throughout the vale.

Even with all of the rain the previous day, the usual bog at Chapel Wood Farm is not there although the going is what the racing fraternity would refer to as being good to soft. The cows are watching us with an element of suspicion and I’m surprised they don’t completely ignore us due to the number of people that traverse their field.

The gorse is still in full bloom as we enter South Wood and the track is clear and dry. There are numerous crows and rooks and I’m thinking of a rhyme learned at school…

A crow in a crowd is a rook, A rook on its own is a crow.

…and watch as the rooks fly around the tops of the ferns calling to each other. They are a very sociable bird and whilst not having the beauty of a goldfinch or the stunning flash of a yellow hammer they are purported to be quite intelligent in a ‘birdy’ sort of way. I remember a show on TV when they demonstrated a rook using tools to trigger food by putting a small ball into a tube. The astonishing thing is that they did this without being trained. There’s a couple of magpies too which is a surprise as we’re still in the wood; I don’t salute but I do know some people who would.

At the top of the bank we meet a couple of Australians. Martyn and Linda are from Melbourne and walking the Coast to Coast, we’ll see them from time to time along this part of the Cleveland Way as the two routes follow the same track for a few miles.

We walk among the trees that disguise the ridge of Scarth Wood Moor and give the occasional glimpse of the vale below. There is a meadow to our right and more birdsong is evident as the skylarks make their presence known whilst they hoover up the midges above the fields.

The track leads over the cattle grid and back into Clain Wood and on to the steps down to Scugdale. This is a beautiful dale and at this time of year is so green. We emerge into a meadow with buttercups in stunning yellow and the occasional birds-foot-trefoil also yellow, there are other plants but as a colour blind person these are the ones that jump out at me.

At the other side of the dale we are on the ‘up’ and initially the going is easy. We pass gorse in stunning yellow, the colour of the day. The wind is quite strong and is welcome as the gradient becomes more acute and as we pass through the gate we begin the ascent of the steps. This element of the walk is very challenging and the steps extremely steep.

We leave the wood and the track becomes less severe but does stretch a long way ahead of us and whilst the top can’t be seen we know there is another half mile to the top but even then there are more ‘tops’ all of them raising the heart rate.

Part way across the moor we pass a group of fourteen or fifteen year olds who’re in the middle of a Duke of Edinburgh course and these boys are getting a bollocking for not working as a team, the girls are looking justifiably smug because they, quite clearly, are a tight working unit.

The final ‘top’ is a trig point and we gather around for photographs that reflect both the height of the moor and the beautiful vale below.

The track then takes us down to Lordstones via steps and flat stones combining to make the path a compromise of safety and ecological intent.

Lordstones and George Preston are waiting with the promise of wonderful pastries, scones and bacon sandwiches have been the lure since we started the walk. We select a table outside and invite Martyn and Linda, our Australian friends, to join us. They’re here for three weeks before going on to the continent and taking the opportunity to see our beautiful county on foot.

We’re here for about 45 minutes and the sandwiches are wonderful; however, the scones taste OK but that’s about it.

The first two-thirds of this walk has been challenging and as a consequence, our stamina is depleted. We make our way to the viewpoint on Cringle Moor, it’s a rise of about 450 feet and we need a couple of stops to catch our breath and allow our legs to recover on the way up.

At the top, we have a fabulous view of the Vale of Mowbray and Teesside but the wind is really cutting now. The ridge is about a kilometre or so then there’s a drop to Raisdale with an almost immediate ascent to Broughton Moor adjacent to the appropriately named Bleak Hills. This is a slightly lower rise of about 300 feet and once again a couple of us struggle with legs that are shaking with the effort. There is a group of youngsters about eleven or twelve years old and they are clearly delighted to be on their way down. As I look back some of them are near the bottom of the moor and are running and playing a game of ‘tigs’ whilst others are rolling the last few yards in the heather. The teachers are not happy because of the rocks that are strewn around, they’re right of course but I smile as I can imagine us, when we were their age, doing exactly the same thing.

It’s only a short walk across the top of this moor before we know it Wainstones is in sight.

The steps down to Garfit Gap are well maintained but require concentration and a degree of care; however, it’s also a chance to see Wainstones in their glory.

You don’t appreciate the height of the Wianstones or the size of some of the stones until you’re looking up at them and that’s what we’re doing now.

As we approach these huge boulders we manage to gain some protection from the wind that’s blowing in strong gusts from some unidentifiable source along the dale and we take a break in the lee of one of the bigger ones.

Once we’re breathing normally again we scramble up through the rocks to the top of the relative flat moor above Hasty Bank. It’s only a twenty-minute walk now to the start of the descent to Clay Bank and as we make out way down the steep zig zag steps we can see the ascent up Car Ridge that we’ll need to deal with tomorrow. It’s about 500 feet but at least we’ll be on fresh legs by then.

George Preston is supporting us and has coffee and biscuits laid out on the wall. The combination is like the fruit of the gods and there is a few minutes of silence as we tuck into Tesco best. Thanks George, you’re a star.

Also thanks to Louise Graydon for letting us on her team 🙂x

This sector is 11 miles (18.5km). It is challenging especially after a couple of days of continuous walking. It includes a fair amount of ascent and some of it is tough…G..x

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Cleveland Way – Osmotherley to Clay Bank So Peeps. The weather is much improved but this one is a biggy. We’ll learn to tell the difference between a crow and rook, struggle with an ascent at the end and hear some boys get a bollocking for not being team players whilst on the Duke of Edinburgh Award scheme.

[annamcnuff]

The 50th State: Hawaii

Ah Hawaii. Islands of the sea. Land of the Hukilau cafe. Home to Polynesian princess’, pineapples and palm trees. And more importantly, the 50th state… A BUMPY START Finally sat on a plane at Dallas Fort Worth airport, I was overcome with relief, and also rather aware that we’d been stationary at the gate for quite some time. The pilot aka ‘DJ Wings McGee’ came on the tannoy. His soothing words were to the effect of 'A part of a plane isn’t working. In fact, we’re concerned it’s missing entirely. We just need to make sure everything’s 'OK’ before taking you up to 30,000ft and letting you plunge to your death.“ I couldn’t help but marvel at such a flawless execution of customer care - DJ McGee clearly missed the training memo about ignorance being bliss. To cut a long story short, I disembarked. The flight was cancelled and I was moved to another. The only casualty of the debacle being… Boudica. As I waited for her beautifully decorated pink gaffa taped cardboard box to appear in the oversized section at Honolulu, it dawned - she was AWOL. Amidst the kerfuffle in Dallas, someone had left her behind (so much for my detailed marker pen box instructions to 'treat her like a lady’). Of course, I was never too worried, you’ve gotta keep the faith after all, and within two days she was safely back in my possession. I don’t need Ms Morisette to tell me how losing Boudica en route the 50th state would have been mildly ironic. "It’s like cycliiiinngggg, 49-states-and-losing-your-bike-on-the-plane…” Boudica, with high hopes of not getting left behind at Dallas, and instructions to treat her like a lady MOUNT HALEAKALA Way back in the heat of the Reno desert, when Hawaii was just a distant dream, a wise man named JP foretold of a mystical volcano on the Island of Maui, called Mount Haleakala. It was also foretold-er-ed that it was the longest, steepest paved road ascent in the world. Considering I was on the hunt for a special little sumthin-sumthin to round off the trip, that sounded perfect. So I floated the idea to my travel agent (AKA - Mum), and the plan was set - we’d nip to the island of Maui, and take on Haleakala. Seeing as though my Dad was a) Going to be in Hawaii too and b) Loves destroying mind and body as much as I do, it was only fair that he join me on the climb. And, seeing as though he wasn’t going to be bringing his very own Pink ten-ton beast to the pedal party, I opted to leave Boudica behind on Oahu, and hire a little carbon number instead. She was Blue. She was beautiful. And I named her Wanda. I’ll level with you, frightening as it sounds to ride from sea level to 10,023 ft in one go, Haleakala isn’t the hardest climb I’ve ever done. Far from it. The gradient is steady, the road is smooth, there are switchbacks to break up the slog and when you have a support car, you don’t even need to carry the many layers of kit required. But I’ll be darned if it’s not spectacularly unique. For a start, the climb takes you through 4 micro climates. And because the gradient is so steady, rather than splitting time equally between staring at the front wheel and trying to relocate your weaker lung, you actually get a rare chance to take it all in. Usually when making the dizzy heights of 10,000 ft you’re surrounded by other mountains. So whilst the vista is a guaranteed spectacular, it’s largely comprised of neighbouring peaks. From the top of Haleakala all you can see is Maui. The whole of it. From one end to the other, and all the way across. Your eye line is spattered with views of the cinder desert landscape, the reef below, the offshore Molokini crater, lush green fields and endless delicate whisps of cloud - suspended as if someone hurridly dismantled an oversized candy floss and just… left it there. Reaching the top of Haleakala is pretty much the closest you’ll ever get to flying (well, aside from jumping off of the sofa, holding a Tesco bag above your head when you were seven. Just me? Oh, right, I see.) I’m not a huge fan of descending. In fact, my level of fanship for the descent is on a par with my level of fanship for Justin Bieber. Suffice it to say, I would gladly never cycle down another hill in my entire life. But apparently old Isie Newton screwed me over way back when, and what goes up must come down. So down I went. Now I know the textbook du cycling says that you’re not supposed to brake whilst descending, but whatevs, I’m a braker. My Name’s Anna McNuff, and I’m addicted to braking. My Dad’s a braker too, I come from a family of brakers. It’s not my fault. And when you’re a braker, 90 minutes of downhill can take it’s toll. Halfway down, my forearms began to look like Popeye’s, my teeth had just about ground down to the gums and and both hands were stuck firmly in 'the claw’ position. By the bottom I had no forearms. Nor gums. Nor hands. THE DRIVE OF DEATH Having seen Maui from on high, it was decided that we should do a little ground level exploring the following day. Within 30 minutes of setting off on a 'short drive’, we were accidentally taking the scenic route to a town called Hana. That is, 30 miles of winding cliff top highway, with a speed limit of 10mph. Granted, it was incredibly beautiful - jutting in and out of tropical forests, past waterfalls, over tiny bridges and with ample opportunity to stop at ocean lookouts. Following a stop for a hike up to a waterfall, the options to get home were either a 3 hour drive back the way we came, or via a more direct 'category B’ road. Considering I was feeling rather car sick by this point, and firmly parked at chunder-junction, I requested that we take the direct route. After all, how B road, can a B road be? On Maui the answer is beyond B. So B-esc that I wouldn’t wish this road on anyone other than Indiana Jones. And possibly James Bond. After a few miles of tarmac, it turned to single track gravel. If you’d be so kind as to lend me a moment, I’d like to place you in the back seat of that car: Jostling around from side to side as if in a Star Tours simulator, with Mummy McNuff (who has a fear of heights) at the wheel. Driving an automatic, oversized SUV, on the wrong side of the road (yes this still matters in a single track). Round sharply banked corners, a sheer drop to the ocean on one side, and rough falling rocks on the other. Watching Dad in the passenger seat grip the door handle and utter soothing comments to an almost silent and shaking Mother Bear, as you try not to vomit for a further 2 hours. It was so frightening, that at one point I opened the window - thinking 'Well if we plunge off the edge here, at least I have a way out’. Then I started wondering how I’d get Mum and Dad out too … Credit where credit’s due. Rally driver Snr Sue McNuff did well. And we actually make it home in one piece, just as the sun went down. A 'relaxing drive’ my eye… THE DOLE PINEAPPLE PLANTATION There are many great unanswered questions in this world. Like, have you ever seen a baby pigeon? What happened to the cheerleading twins from Fun House and why is Floo powder not yet viable method of transportation? Yet, until now there was one huge philosophical consideration that had escaped the wanderings of my mind - how do Pineapples grow? Stop. Let it wash over you… There we go. You’ll now have found yourself in one of three camps: Camp A) “Err duh. (rolls eyes). In the ground, of course” Camp B) “Psssshh don’t be so silly, they grow on trees.” Camp C) You know the truth. Which is of course that they grow in a bush. Sort of like a Fruit-Fugees, hiding from the outside world, nestled between leafy splays of gigantic grass. And, I don’t want to blow your mind too much, but there’s more than one type. I tell you this from a throne of authority, having visited an enormous pineapple plantation on Northern Oahu. I’d love to relay how I spent hours learning about the humble pineapple. That it was my sole motive to go there and fill my brain with fruity facts. Alas - I heard that they had the best Pinapple ice cream in all of Earth-land. So I simply went to fill my belly, and learn a little bit on the side. The DoleWhip pinapple cone was more than worth the trip. The Pineapple revelation, a bonus. WAIKIKI BEACH The hard work (and a final ride on Boudica) done, I spent the rest of my time in Hawaii relaxing. I went snorkelling, which reminded me how much I missed swimming. I lay on a beach, which reminded me how much I missed sitting still (not much). And I drunk cocktails, which reminded me how much alcohol I’d consumed in the past 7 months (again, not much). Waikiki itself is a tourist trap, there’s no denying it - but I loved it. Unlike many busy tourists strips around the globe, at Waikiki there were a distinct lack of Pikies (American readers, you might have to urban dictionary that one). There were no lobster sunburnt, beer swilling, projectile vomiting, fishbowl fuelled louts with made in England tattoos across their shoulders and gold caps on their teeth. There were simply contented individuals, enjoying 24 hour paradise, a warm sea and a civilised Mai Tai or two at sunset. If I’m not allowed to be a snob in my last week, when am I. THE FINAL COUNTDOWN I can’t believe we’ve made it to this point, Five-O gang. If you’ll stick with me for one last week, as I squirm my way through jet lag and the return to normality, I’d like to write you all a final post. A comment on the trip as a whole - what I’ve learnt (about me and about others), the highs, the lows, and where I go from here. I promise not to get heavy on your asses, but I do promise to be honest. And who knows, I might even be humorous. This week"s pictures are up on Flickr here Until then, 50 high fives to you all for each and every state, Anna :)