#European vineyards

[winewomanww]

Wine Woman Whisky Whisperer

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[artthatgivesmefeelings]

Sir John Everett Millais (English, 1829 - 1896) The tribe of Benjamin seizing the daughters of Shiloh in the vineyards, Exhibited 1848

[savvytravelers]

European Wine Culture

Experience the rich European wine culture with Savvy Travelers, exploring the traditions and regions that produce the world’s best wines!

[useless-catalanfacts]

Hi, so as far as my family knows, our family name is Catalan, but we can't trace our family line before we moved to Cuba. So I was wondering if many Catalan people moved to Cuba when it became outlawed in Spain? Or in the times leading up to it being outlawed?

Thanks!

Hola!

Cuba is one of the countries with a largest Catalan diaspora. Catalan people were forbidden from going to the Americas (who were Castillian colonies) until the year 1778, and it still took a while for people to start going in large numbers.

Catalan people first migrated to Cuba in the 19th century, a few were rich people who went there for commerce (even involved in slave traffic! 😱) and soon more poor people started going, too, after their lives were turned upside-down by the phylloxera pest. Back then, in many parts of the Catalan Countries most people worked in the vineyard fields or related trades that had to do with winemaking, but in the mid-1800s the phylloxera (an insect from North America that destroys vineyards' roots) arrived to Europe and destroyed the fields. The effects of the phylloxera were absolutely devastating: thousands of people lost all their vineyards, whole areas lost their income, poverty reached the extreme. With the countryside ravaged, people desperately looked for new jobs, and many found that the only option was to emigrate. The vineyard-making rural areas suddenly lost population, who were going to the cities or abroad. Most of these Catalan farmers who went abroad went to Cuba, because it was seen as a land of opportunity where people could make a good living. Usually (and like many economical migrants nowadays), they had the idea that they would go, make money, and come back home, but (not unlike many economical migrants nowadays) most did not make that much money, and decided to stay in Cuba. Many Catalan immigrants in Cuba ran corner shops, they were so poor that they slept behind the shop's counter because they didn't have any other home than the shop. I have read that in 19th century Cuba, people even used the expression "to go to the Catalan on the corner" (el catalán de la esquina) or just "to go to the Catalan" (el catalán) to mean going to a corner shop (same as now many European countries say "to go to the Pakistani"). Besides these ones, a strong network of Catalan merchants also established itself in Cuba, trading with sugar and coffee.

Of course, the "corner Catalans" could not afford to come back, but the ones involved in slave trading or commerce with products grown by slaves often could. The poverty at home and the return of these rich people created the image of the "indiano" or "americano", meaning someone who had gone to Cuba (or, less commonly, Puerto Rico), had become rich, and had come back dressed in elegant fashionable clothes, the man smoking a thick cigar, and built a beautiful house in his hometown. The "indiano" became part of the collective imagination, and was a very prestigious person. These "indiano-style" buildings (they sent the command to start building the house from America, before coming back) and the presence of the "indianos" promoted the idea of Cuba as a place of opportunities even more. Still nowadays, in Catalan we have the expression "fer les Amèriques" ("to do the Americas") meaning to get very rich.

Examples of indiano houses in Begur and Cadaqués.

Examples of indiano houses in Sitges.

And the same happened the other way around a bit later: in Cuba, art nouveau was introduced in large part by Catalans, and the early houses built in this style were called "catalanadas" by Cubans.

In Sitges, there's even a pair of "giants" that represent these "indianos". "Giants" are a traditional element of Catalan folk culture, they're hollow figures that represent the mythical founders of a town or someone important from their local history or legends. In the case of Sitges (like in many more towns that used to be the border between Muslim and Christian kingdoms when they were founded), it's a pair of Muslim nobles and Christian nobles from the Middle Ages. But in the 1960s they decided to add another pair of smaller giants to represent the "indianos". This goes to show how the idea of the "indiano" almost as a mythical category has survived.

The "americanos" giants in Sitges.

For these reasons, there is a long list of famous Cubans of the Catalan diaspora, including the president of the first independent Cuban constitutional assembly (Asemblea de Guáimaro) Bartolomé Masó, Facund Bacardí (founder of the Bacardí rum company), the revolutionary and Cuban independence hero Leoncio Vidal, the musician and conductor Xavier Cugat, the poet José Martí, la reina del bolero Olga Guillot, the dancer Aurora Bosch, the anti-Fulgencio Batista intellectual Mario Llerena, the anarchist thinker Fernando Tarrida del Mármol and his uncle the Cuban independence general Donato Mármol, among others.

Besides Catalan-Cubans being involved in Cuban independence from the Spanish empire, they also were involved in the Catalan independence movement. For example, the flag of Catalan independence (estelada) was created in the early 1900s by a Catalan in Cuba, who used the triangle of the Cuban flag that means independence.

The Cuban flag and the Catalan independence flag.

The Catalan diaspora in Cuba also created the first "Casal Català" ("Catalan house") in 1840 in Habana. A Casal Català is a social centre where Catalan emigrants meet, for example to celebrate the Catalan holidays, and also open Catalan culture to other people, such as by offering Catalan classes. Nowadays, there are 128 Casals Catalans in all 5 continents.

Another way in which Cuba has had a deep mark in Catalan culture is the music genre havaneres, which are melancholic songs that fishermen, sailors and emigrants sang.

The other moment with a highest number of Catalan emigrants (refugees and exiles) was after the fascists' victory in the Spanish Civil War (1939), but few of them went to Cuba then. Most went to Mexico, Venezuela, and France, and some also to Chile, Argentina, Colombia, and to a lesser extent the UK and the USA.

[todaysjewishholiday]

15 Menachem Av 5784 (18-19 August 2024)

Tu b’Av Sameach! According to the Talmud the fifteenth of Av was the most joyful festival of ancient Israel (they say the only thing that matched it was Yom Kippur, when the entire community’s sins were carried off into the desert by the scapegoat). So what was celebrated on Tu b’Av? Love! Youth! Marriage! Romance!

Like Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot, Tu b’Av did double duty as an agricultural festival (the start of the grape harvest) and a historical commemoration (which we discussed in yesterday’s post). Unlike the others, its purpose was not to focus on the covenant between the Jewish people and HaShem. Instead, it was a day for those who were single to show they were ready to mingle. It was a festival for flirting. It was a day for young people in the community to imagine that they’d find the kind of romance that would fill their lives with joy. You get the picture.

In ancient society courtship was often closely regulated, with marriages arranged by extended families to cement alliances with other families. But Tu b’Av was a day for young women to try to attract a husband of their own choosing. Traditionally, it was a day when young women would go dance in the vineyards in plain white dresses that disguised socioeconomic distinctions, singing traditional songs about what good wives they would make and teasing the community’s young men.

Since most of us don’t live near grape vineyards or practice the same type of limitations on courtship or know a wide range of communal dances any more, the celebration of Tu b’Av has changed considerably. It’s now used as the Jewish holiday for those in a long term romantic relationship to celebrate their partner, like the European Christian celebration of Valentine’s Day. So if you have somebody in your life who you love like that, wish them a joyful Tu b’Av— and then do your best to have one together.

[youryurigoddess]

Aziraphale’s wine

It is a truth universally acknowledged in the Good Omens fandom that an angel in need of a drink turns to his secret stash of Châteauneuf-du-Pape in the back room. He picked up a dozen cases in 1921, and a whole century later there's still some left… for special occasions.

Just to put things in perspective, a standard case contains 12 750ml bottles, for a total of 9 liters of wine. A dozen cases equals 144 bottles, or 108 liters of wine. That’s quite a lot for a single purchase, so Aziraphale — the established sherry and sweet drinks connoisseur — must have had a good reason for it.

One potential explanation is the aura of grandeur around this particular wine. The papal connection, rich history of the region, and recognition of high quality products give Châteauneuf-du-Pape wines a very luxurious status, considerably influencing their price tags. And Aziraphale is known to have standards.

Another one is the way in which their taste differs from Aziraphale’s usual choices: Châteauneuf-du-Pape reds are often described as earthy with gamey flavors that have hints of tar and leather. The wines are considered tough and tannic in their youth, but maintain their rich spiciness as they age.

Since everything in Good Omens has a meaning, it never hurts to run through a quick Strong’s Concordance search whenever a date pops up in a dialogue or, even more importantly, somewhere on screen. More often than not the result seems to match the researched topic, as it’s the case here:

1921: to know exactly, to recognize.

Provided examples: I come to know by directing my attention to him or it, I perceive, discern, recognize; I found out. The general usage of the word usually refers to knowing someone aptly, properly, thoroughly, even biblically. Which might be either a wishful thinking on Aziraphale’s part or just another layer of subtext in this already romantically charged scene. The table dressing, multiple candles, and focus on the lamps with Auguste Moreau’s Young Lovers statues in the background seem to successfully communicate what the angel left unsaid.

Too bad that Crowley remained so adorably oblivious for the next eighty years. At least when he finally came to the realization, he responded with an attempted temptation to another vintage red wine @vidavalor already analyzed.

But back to Aziraphale’s wine. To be exact, it’s a 1921 Châteauneuf-du-Pape from the domaine de Baban. An actual French vineyard from the Rhône region that still exists to this day, even though a few decades ago it got merged with another estate into what is now known as domaine Riché-Baban. According to the local guides, the 11 hectares on the estate are located in the Châteauneuf-du-Pape designation area in the Bois Lauzon and Mourre de Baud districts. At the moment 90% of the wines produced there are sent to wine dealers.

1920s were quite an interesting time for this region, but not because of the flapper cabarets or drag shows usually associated with the era on the Old Continent. To the horror of European oenophiles, right after World War I the whole of France found itself awash with fake wine. One of the worst outrages was the use of lead that magically transformed cheap, acid wine into something deceptively rich and sweet on the outside and one of the most powerful neurotoxins on the inside. People were already well aware of its effects — the poisoning from drinking sweetened wine probably made Handel go blind and Beethoven go deaf, but it shows how desperate for sweetness they were before sugar became available to the masses.

Admittably, it wasn’t a new practice. Far from it — the Romans liked it so much that they even advised to pack lead pans on travels to boil local wine in them to make it sweeter, especially in colder provinces like Britannia. But Aziraphale didn’t buy twelve cases of counterfeit wine for the sake of some good memories of Rome and its many health hazards. No, the fussy angel made sure to get the actually good stuff from the other side of the English Channel.

Henry Tacussel, whose name is mentioned on his wine label, was a French viticulturalist and a close friend of Baron Pierre Le Roy of the Chateau Fortia nearby, a trained lawyer and fellow winegrower from Châteauneuf-du-Pape who established the Winegrowers' Union of the Rhône Valley. Together with the Baron he became one of the founders of Appellation d'origine contrôlée (AOC), a labeling system intended to protect regional products and technologies that is still in use in France and serves as an inspiration to similar solutions worldwide. Their efforts were deliberately centred on Châteauneuf-du-Pape because with such a beguiling name even in comparison to other labels it seemed to attract an undue share of fraudsters at the time.

Soon after Aziraphale’s shopping spree, the local wine producers led by Le Roy and Tacussel began a very long campaign to establish legal protection for the wine from their commune. The delimited area and the method of wine production were finally awarded legal recognition after a decade, in 1933, but it wasn’t the end of the criminal activities on this front. An undercover investigation by The Sunday Times discovered that most of the “Châteauneuf” in the 1960s Britain was actually blended and bottled in Ipswich.

One question remains: was it a purely human affair, or maybe one requiring a demonic or angelic intervention?

[tgmsunmontue]

Season to Taste - 5/? WIP

Explicit Hangster - Celebrity Chef Bradley and Naval Aviator Jake Seresin who have a relationship spanning the globe before they realize how tightly bound they are to one another. Heading into this little world.

PROLOGUE/ONE TWO THREE FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

                “I don’t like wine.”

                “I don’t care. You need to learn the flavors. What it can add to food. Which ones might go better with certain dishes.”

                “Oh.”

                So he sits, and is made to try a variety of reds and whites and then have them with certain dishes and okay, there are some he doesn’t hate, but it still wouldn’t be his first choice. He can tell that some of the food tastes better when drunk with different wines, and vice versa. Then he’s dragged along to the family vineyard, taught about the pruning and pressing, the inclusion of the skins of the grapes and the fungus that can make them sweet and he’s equal parts fascinated and horrified.

…            …            …

                He’s lying in the bed, coming down from the high and Bradley can’t wipe the grin from his face. Orgasms always put him in a good mood, doubly-so when they involve someone else. It’s why those he works with are so often telling him he needs to go out and get fucked. God, the endorphin high is something else. Jake seems equally pleased with their time together so far, in no rush to leave, his lips and fingers tracing paths over Bradley’s cooling skin which has been half-heartedly wiped clean of both their come using Bradley’s shirt. He’s warm and drowsy but also contemplating suggesting a shower, both to get clean but also to wake himself up. He can sleep when he doesn’t have an attractive man in his bed.

                “Did you know you were my first kiss with a guy?”

                Bradley startles a little, opens his eyes to find Jake peering at him with mischievous eyes and he’s so fucking unfairly gorgeous, even in the waning evening light.

                “What?”

                “Yeah. First kiss. Was great but it freaked me out. Kind of why I ran.”

                “Okay…” Bradley says, and he really doesn’t know what to do with this information. Huh. He knows DADT was repealed in 2011, and now thinking back to 2008 then he supposes there was more than one reason for Jake to run. He’s not running now though.

                “Yeah. I mean, it was almost ten years ago. I wasn’t hanging around waiting for you or anything. But, uh, it was… formative.”

                “Formative huh?” Bradley asks, shifting a little and grinning, is enjoying the fact that Jake can’t seem to stop touching him.

                “Well, I did think European guys were much hotter than American guys, but it turns out you’re American after all…”

                “Disappointed?” Bradley asks, a little worried what the answer might be. He’s had it happen before, guys think he’s one thing and then found out the almost opposite is true. Not always with regards to his nationality, but his personality and how he’s sometimes portrayed on screen. Sure, he has a temper and he lets it get the best of him in the kitchen sometimes, but it’s never translated to the bedroom. Ever. If anything the opposite is true. Not that he needs to get into that with Jake.

                “Do I seem disappointed?”

                “Don’t answer a question with a question.”

                “Baby, I am definitely not disappointed in any way…” Jake says, and his kiss is slow and purposeful, his body bracketing Bradley against the bed, pushing him down and it’s exactly where he likes to be and he lets out a moan of approval or appreciation. Regardless Jake takes it for the encouragement it is and rolls his hips, creating friction between them despite the fact that their bodies are almost flush with one another from thigh to chest.

                “You have anywhere you need to be tomorrow?”

                “Nope. On leave remember. Only my sisters and they know where I am…” Jake says, giving Bradley a slow up-and-down look and slow smirk which has him laughing.

                “Yeah? You want to stay the night?”

                “We trying for round two?”

                “Seven course degustation menu…” Bradley jokes, flexing his own hips to add to the building friction.

                “What’s that?”

                “Seven rounds…” Bradley says, which he knows is impossible, however –

                “Well, I always did like a challenge.”

                Bradley throws his head back and laughs.

…            …            …

                Jake sends a quick message to his sisters to let them know not to expect him home, even though it’s late he knows one of them will be waiting up for him. God he’s glad they have no idea the type of shit he gets up to at work. They’d never fucking sleep with worry. He knows they don’t particularly like that he’s in the service, but they’ve always been nothing but supportive of his life choices, even when they’ve had to give up on some of their own he’s always been allowed to follow his dreams. He’s the baby of their family and he totally leans into it, taking advantage of the fact that all his sisters have soft spots for him. Letting them know he’s safe right now is the least he can do.

                Safe physically at least. A little part of him worries that maybe staying isn’t the wisest course of action, that the fantasy he’d created in his mind around Leo is never going to stand up to close inspection. The sex so far has been superb, and he’s already shifted him from being Italian in his head to American, but sleeping has always felt like an even more intimate act to him. Sharing the little before-bed routines a person might have.

                At least Leo wants to have some type of mystery, has closed the door to the ensuite very firmly, the lock sliding home and Jake bites back a grin, remembering hook-ups taking a piss in front of him. He doesn’t have a problem with bodily functions, but he also doesn’t mind the build-up to that level of familiarity. He sobers then, realizes that he and Leo aren’t likely to build up to anything given Jake’s profession and Leo’s job, which he has to admit he doesn’t really understand why he’s travelling for work when his work is making food for people. Ah well, he can ask more about it later.

…            …            …

                He wakes up to the smell of bacon and eggs, along with coffee and he stretches, disappointed to find the bed empty even if it maybe explains the reason for the smells. He wonders if he should brave going out to the kitchen, given that he doesn’t exactly have clean clothes. Plus there’s the risk of running into the other people who are staying here. And if Bradley is planning on bringing him breakfast in bed then who is Jake to stop him? He settles back and scrolls through his phone and answers a few messages and sends a couple of photos from his last week into various group chats.

                “Hey, morning…You’re awake.”

                “Morning. I’m an early riser.”

                “Not as early as me…” Leo says, and he’s sliding a tray onto the bedside table and Jake goggles at it. There’s the bacon and eggs he could smell, but there are also sausages and grilled tomatoes, then some golden and crunchy-looking thing which he’s hoping is some form of potato. There’s four slices of bread and little pats of butter slowly melting on them, then another dish of what look like mushrooms which he can tell were cooked in garlic judging from the smell.

                “Holy shit, how much do you think I eat?”

                “Well, it’s my first chance to cook for you, so I had to pull out a few stops. Plus you need to keep up your energy…” Leo says, sitting on the bed and leaning forward to give him a kiss.

                “Do I now?” Jake asks, and he hadn’t planned on spending the day in bed but it’s not like he has anywhere else he has to be.

                “Uh huh. I did make that for both of us though…”

                “Thank fuck… Do you have any sauce?”

                Leo blinks at him, frowns and then shakes his head.

                “No. Here, let me make a perfect mouthful…”

                Jake raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk.

                “Just a mouthful huh?” Jake asks, and Leo looks at him with a slightly confused look before he’s flushing bright red and ducking, his head shaking.

                “Jesus you’re incorrigible.”

                “Well, if you’re going to sit there looking like that and offering to feed me I’m definitely going to get ideas.”

                He barely catches the roll of eyes but Leo busies himself making a little forkful of food that includes some of the golden-crunchy potato, along with some of the tomato and a sausage piece and Jake really does prefer things with sauce, but he opens his mouth obligingly, meeting Leo’s eyes and doesn’t miss the way his eyes drop to Jake’s lips which are wrapped around the tines of the fork.

                “Mmm…” Jake says, and he chews thoughtfully. It does taste good, and he’s looking forward to having more. “It’s delicious.”

                “Good…”

                “Could use a little sauce though.”

PART SIX

[secular-jew]

This book is written in Latin by Adriani Rilandi In 1695 describing in great detail, what was then called Palestine. He visited the entire region, ~2,500 towns, and recorded a census.

Rilandi was a geographer, cartographer, traveler, philologist, he knew several European languages, Arabic, ancient Greek, Hebrew.

Here are the primary facts & conclusions:

* The country is mainly empty, sparsely populated, the main population is Jerusalem, Akko, Tsfat, Jaffa, Tveria and Gaza.

* Most of the population were Jews. That's right. Jews. Everyone else is Christians, aside from very very few Muslims, mostly Bedouins.

* The only exception is Nablus (now Shchem), where approximately 120 people from the Muslim family Natsha and approximately 70 "shomronims" (Samaritans).

* In Nazareth, the capital of Galilee, lived approximately 700 people - all Christians.

* In Jerusalem there were about 5,000 people, almost all Jews and a few Christians.

* In 1695, everyone knew that the origin of the country was Jewish.

* There is not a single settlement in Palestine that has Arabic roots in its name.

* Most settlements have Jewish originals, and in some cases Greek or Roman Latin.

* About 550 people lived in Gaza, half of them Jews and half Christians.

Jews were successful in agriculture, especially in vineyards, olives and wheat, Christians were largely engaged in trade and transportation.

The book completely refutes theories about "Palestinian traditions", "Palestinian people" and leaves almost no link between the land and the Arabs who even stole the land's Latin name (Palestine) and took it for themselves.

And now "Free Palestine" people, remind me, please, why are you trying to free Palestine from it's original indigenous people (Jews) and give it to colonizers and occupiers?

[jaxplaysthesims]

★ european summer lookbook ★

☼ exploring the town: top | shorts | loafers | socks

☼ trip to the vineyards: jumpsuit | sandals | purse

☼ out to dinner: dress | heels | anklet

☼ off to the beach: bikini | cover up | sandals | glasses

thanks to the wonderful cc creators - @sentate, @charonlee, @cinnamon-sims, @dissiasims, @theslyd, @backtrack-cc, @jius-sims, @trillyke, @simstrouble. and @sunivaa <3

✰ socials ✰

[melancholicstation]

The Socially Active Secretary: Chapter One

pairing: robert francis kennedy female ❤︎ original character charlotte agapov (secretary!reader)

authors note: this is more of establishing of context around our main secretary girl!! our favourite pathetic catholic men (the kennedys) will come very soon i promise, all in due time. 🍺 please leave comments of any questions/likes/dislikes/all around opinions so i know if your interested!!!

synopsis: charlotte agapov, a divorcee whom recently moved back to the states after a disastrous lovers quarrel, assumes the secretarial position to the most important man in America, but it is not he who has captured her attention, no. instead, it's his meek younger brother, the runt of the kennedy pack, bobby francis kennedy.

[1403 words]

taglist: @kennediva @absurdlyvintage

chapter two, three

masterlist charlotte moodboard rfk moodboard

(border from jenny holzer truisms 2018)

Chapter One

May 1st , 1961

There Charlotte stood, rolling on the balls of her feet, observing the woman before her in the mirror, finding her increasingly difficult to place her as recognisable. She had all the features that Charlotte understood to be her own, but she felt like nothing of the sort. Swathed in wool, to accommodate for the seemingly perpetuate damp state of Massachusetts in the month of May, and encompassed by a calf-length dress fit with double-faced cashmere in a mousey grey. Due to her contentious divorce with the English baron Hugo Cornwall, he had ordered for all her typical clothes to be held in a storage facility in Kent instead of its original location: Brookline Massachusetts. He knew how important those items were to Charlotte, and he used them as nothing more as a bargaining chip.

As a result of the divorce Charlotte had been tabloid-manhandled out of Britain and promptly returned to her mother country, the United States, and backed right into perusing the job boards in the Cape Cod Times by her alimony-avoiding, hector of an ex-husband. Hugo, at 40, knew of nothing but a life of bone china plates and private charter jets, getting by in this world from a combination of generational handouts from his godmother's situated in a nondescript European country off the coast and the humiliatingly tacky private tours he host every Saturday evening of the inherited estates cashing in a small fortune. And yet, he avoids the alimony checkers in a not so dissimilar fashion to that of his shunned family embarrassment of an uncle, who was, as of last month, avoiding taxes of in sunny Monte Carlo.

Once it became incredibly clear that Hugo was never going to cough up, and that her mother's invitation of staying at her summer house in Martha's Vineyard had a fast approaching expiry date Charlotte started to look for her next move.

Just when she had nearly exhausted all her mother's country club friends who, in a tone that could only be translated as deeply patronising stated that,

"Unemployment for such a young, american divorcee was 'in' for 1962" and that they would "call back in April to work something out"

However, April came and went, and still nothing. During the 16-month stint since Charlotte's divorce of 1961, Charlotte felt very sorry for herself and--well that's about all she did really.

Not only did getting married at 20, and it's later disillusion 8 years later, create an abstract wreckage sculpture out of her self-esteem and physical health, it stripped all prior job experience that a girl her age should've been building. After all, she could still feel her mother's fingertips ushering an 20 year old Charlotte's hands away from a flyer, held by a piece of battered painter's tape on a lamppost advertising a law school in the area,

"Oh for christ sake what are staring at now Charlotte?, you know we have caroline's recital across town, and I swear if I have to hear your aunts nasally whine one more time so help me God I will--"

Charlotte abandons her post of intense eye contact with the poster fluttering by the winds will almost instantly and returns through a soft tone "I-I'm coming now, it just captured my eye that's all."

The rest of the walk was blanketed in a soft wool of repression and thoughts better left unspoken until her mother turned on her heal, the gravel exclaiming a pleasant crunch in response,

"Don't you dare think I didn't see what you were looking at Charlotte, these are not the aspirations expected of a future baroness, you won't have any need for these silly machinations once you're tending to your husband and your home together. I understand that your nervous but think of how happy you'll be in a short few months with Hugo."

Her mother assured her in such a cadence, with such wistful hope, not meaning to make Charlotte's stomach drop but it did all the same.

"You know, I got nervous too, when I was engaged to your father. I thought about leaving more times than Sinatra's gets played on the radio at Green's pharmacy, but I stuck it out. And I got rewarded a great deal for that, for that bravery, and you will too. Far more than I ever did, I mean you're marrying a Baron who is infatuated with you for Pete's sake!"

Charlotte thinks to scoff at the notion that Hugo is at all capable of the feeling of infatuation but halts when she observes the expression of sheer elation on her mother's face.

"Everything will run as it's meant to if you do what's best, I promise",

and with that a kiss is pressed to Charlotte's forehead, and the conversation is recklessly abandoned by both parties.

Charlotte had stayed in that marriage for 8 years and what did she have to show for it? Surely not anything tangentially useful. Sure, now she knew the intricacies of English etiquette and the British aversion to hugs but that's nothing to be put on a resume. However, one worthy advantage that came out of the grotesque misalignment that was their marriage was that around the 4th year mark Charlotte had managed to secure an English degree from the University of London. Now that was certainly something to put on her resume.

Still the world seemed to completely turn its back on Charlotte, though only on a strictly employment basis, she still attended mass each Sunday and caught up with her still married, though not happily, socialite friends but it was hard to find common ground anymore. Before she could feasibly pass as one of them, now even if they didn't explicitly state it, Charlotte was now regarded as persona no grata for the entirety of the high society scene of London. She was left with a bunch empty friends, and an, as if increasing by the day, empty purse strings.

That was until a job ad in The Boston Globe caught the baby blue shadowed eye of Charlotte during her quite lonely solo escapade to the local sandwich bar across the street from her flat.

It read, in a thick professional font:

'Exciting Secretary Position Available at political epicentre of Washington D.C!

Are you a talented and organised individual seeking a rewarding career in a fast-paced office environment? Our office is looking for a professional Secretary to join our team and contribute to our continued success.

Position: Secretary Location: Top Secret [Call to confirm details] Salary: Competitive, with excellent benefits

Responsibilities:

managing and prioritising daily office tasks with efficiency

coordinating appointments and travel

managing diaries

support senior executives

having a pleasant demeanour when interacting with important officials

Qualifications:

High School Diploma or equivalent

Apply today to be part of a supportive and thriving workplace!

Phone: *** *** ***''

Now sure, the vague nature of who exactly the job would have Charlotte working for was strange and a little more than unnerving but realistically Charlotte, a 29 year old women with the same employment history as a 18 year old fresh out of high school, was going to take whatever she could get at this point.

The girl took the changing of the sky from bright periwinkle to a dim earl grey, as a sign to head back to her place in order to escape the fast approaching storm, the newspaper resting comparably rolled up in the crook of her arm.

Prior to returning to her apartment Charlotte had come to forget about the job as she had ran a few errands after the sandwich bar, that was until her feet met the door mat of her apartment. It was no longer clean as she had left it prior it now had, scrawled in big black letters, 'warning of eviction if payment is not obtained by next month'.

Charlotte's shaking hands move to pick up the yellow slip, and as she makes her way through her apartment, periodically leaving her jacket on the armrest of her laughably small settee in her stress-filled haze, she then starts to remember the job offer from the afternoon.

Sure the ad's ambiguity was a bit strange, but truly who was she to judge? It's not like the job offers were exactly rolling in at the moment.

'Oh what the hell, she might as well give it a go!' Charlotte thought, as she hesitantly dialled up the rotary.

End of Chapter One.

[mybeingthere]

Thomas Hart Benton (1889-1975, American)

Born in Missouri into a politically influential family in 1889, Benton found inspiration among working class communities in rural America. A prolific painter, sculptor, printmaker and gifted storyteller, Benton is credited with leading the Regionalist movement in the United States early in his career. He has long been celebrated as the most innovative practitioner of mural painting depicting American life.

Benton studied at prestigious institutions including the Art Institute of Chicago in 1907 and the Académie Julian in Paris, where he met fellow American painter, Synchromist Stanton Macdonald-Wright. Settling in New York in 1911, Benton’s work remained largely abstract until the early 1920s. On a 1924 trip home to visit his father, he was inspired to revisit his midwestern roots and began painting American rural subjects such as life in coal mines, steel mills and cotton fields. The influence of Spanish Old Master El Greco is evident in Benton’s naturalistic style, sculpted figures and fluid lines. While the rhythmic distortions of Benton’s compositions were informed by his European study, his work reflects a vibrant diversity that is distinctly American.

Benton was the first artist to be featured on the cover of Time magazine and his murals hung at an early site of the Whitney Museum of American Art. It was during this time that Benton formed a close alliance with his student - and frequent guest at his Martha’s Vineyard studio - Jackson Pollock.

https://schoelkopfgallery.com/art.../129-thomas-hart-benton/

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I couldn’t believe it when I saw a pigeon castle in the yard of a home for sale in Rhode Island, USA. I thought that medieval pigeon castles were only found in France. So, I had to go to my archives to revisit their story. 

I was fascinated, and people called them mini castles, playhouses, etc., so I did some research & found out what they really were. Actually, they’re called Pigeonniers.

It all started with this one that was Photoshopped and made the rounds of the internet and Pinterest. I was equally smitten by it. Some said it was a studio, a gardener’s cottage, and even a fairy house.

In the Middle Ages, meat was a luxury and served only on rare occasions. For nobility & royalty, a pigeonnier was extra status and power. Having one was a way to indicate to neighbors that you were feasting on pigeons every day.

Pigeonniers, or “dovecotes” in English, are intended to house pigeons or sometimes doves (Actually, doves are just white pigeons). The birds were especially popular in the Middle Ages for their meat, eggs and fertilizer (poop).

The production of “columbine,” or pigeon feces, was highly sought after as a fertilizer for vineyards, vegetable gardens, orchards and various crops. 

And as we neared the dawn of the 20th cent., Parisians alone were consuming some 2,000,000 pigeons a year! 

 After that, pigeon breeding in France went on the decline as European diets changed and the meat industry evolved.

So what’s inside these grand pigeonniers?  One large open space with walls divided into pigeon holes, or boulins, which can lodge a pair of pigeons. Here a pigeon farmer stands on a ladder, which rotates around the central beam, allowing the breeder to collect eggs from each hole.

The earliest ones were crafted from rock, brick, pottery or even just jars lying sideways.

Many of them even had a bath. 

This old pigeonnier used to be inhabited on the 1st 2 floors by humans, while the 3rd floor was reserved for pigeons. (It’s since been turned into a B&B.)

You can find renovated bed and breakfasts by searching with the keywords “pigeonnier” and “dovecote” on Airbnb.

https://www.messynessychic.com/

[savvytravelers]

Luxury Wine Cruises

Unforgettable Wine River Cruises: Experience The Perfect Blend Of Wine Culture And Luxury

We celebrate wine and treat our guests to a wonderful selection of regional wines across all of our river cruise itineraries – however, many guests wish to take their passion for wine a bit further. Is there a winery whose bottles dominate your dinner parties? If so, you may be able to travel along with their wine club on one of our exclusive Celebration of Wine River Cruises with Savvy Travelers.

Sip, Savor, and Enjoy

Savvy Travelers offers over 70 annual Wine Cruises through Europe’s iconic winemaking regions. Each cruise is hosted by a wine professional who brings “New World” bottles for you to enjoy. Experience curated tastings, visit historic cellars, and compare wines from different regions.

Choose Your Ideal Wine Experience

Our Celebration of Wine River Cruises are guided by enthusiastic wine professionals. They lead tastings, accompany you on shore excursions to vineyards and cellars, and curate special food and wine pairing dinners. Discover the perfect blend of travel, wine, and cuisine.

North American Wine Host Sailings

Sample European wines in their native regions and compare them with selections from a North American winery. Enjoy tastings of New World and Old World wines while exploring the history and culture of the area.

European Wine Immersion Sailings

Immerse yourself in the local wine culture with an expert in European wines. Learn about the region’s history and varietals, and get insider tips on local delicacies and must-visit spots.

Epicurean Experiences

Premier Vineyards and Cellar Tours

Visit unique vineyards and wineries like France’s Château de Montaigne and Austria’s Burg Clam. Taste the history and heritage of these storied vines.

Authentic Encounters

Connect with artisans and vintners. Learn to pair chocolate with wine, discover the process of making olive oil, and enjoy Austria’s Wachau Valley apricots.

Food and Wine Pairing – A Unique Art

Experience dinners with wines perfectly chosen to complement your meal. Enjoy pairings like rosemary-crusted lamb with Châteauneuf-du-Pape and oysters with a Loire white.

Regional Wines

Our Celebration of Wine River Cruises feature an extensive selection of regional wines. From Bordeaux's robust reds to the crisp whites of the Rhine, each glass tells a story of its terroir, complementing the culinary traditions of each region.

Bordeaux, France: BlendsBordeaux is famous for its blends of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Cabernet Franc. Enjoy complex and balanced wines with notes of dark fruit and spice.

The Seine River, France: Champagne and CalvadosEnjoy the sparkling luxury of Champagne and the rich flavor of Calvados, an apple brandy from Normandy.

The Rhone River - Provence, France: Rosés, Hermitage, and the "Pope's Wine"Savor refreshing Rosés and robust Hermitage reds, including the famous Châteauneuf-du-Pape.

The Douro River, Portugal: Port Wine and Vinho VerdeExperience rich, fortified Port Wine and the light, slightly effervescent Vinho Verde.

The Upper Danube River - Wachau Valley, Austria: Grüner Veltliner and RieslingEnjoy crisp, aromatic wines like Grüner Veltliner and Riesling from the Wachau Valley.

The Lower Danube River - Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, Bulgaria: Szekszárd, Tokaji, Plum Brandy, and SeherezadaTaste Hungary’s Szekszárd reds, sweet Tokaji wines, traditional Plum Brandy, and Seherezada from Serbia.

The Rhine River, Germany: Rieslings, Crémant d'Alsace, and Kölsch BeerEnjoy versatile Rieslings, sparkling Crémant d'Alsace, and refreshing Kölsch beer.

The Moselle River, Germany: RieslingsSample some of the world’s finest Rieslings with bright acidity and fruity notes.

The Main River, Germany: Silvaner, Müller-Thurgau, and RauchbierDiscover Silvaner, Müller-Thurgau, and the unique smoked beer, Rauchbier, from Bamberg.

Book Your Celebration of Wine River Cruise Today

Join Savvy Travelers on a Celebration of Wine River Cruise and explore Europe’s finest wine regions. Reserve your spot today and get ready to sip, savor, and enjoy an unparalleled wine adventure!

[adore-laur]

CLOUD NINE

— a swoonworthy sequel to pink velvet 💍

——

Lake Como is an area with timeless appeal that seizes the eyes of every wanderer roaming the enticing paradise of solitude. Rolling vineyards weave throughout the countryside, with snow-capped mountains rising above the clouds. Romanesque cathedrals and theaters overlook the grand lake, beautifully shaped by glacial movements. Opulent gardens of cascading wisteria and olive groves blossom across the region, decorating the premises of historical villas and estates. 

It's bliss for the second time. 

It also happens to be one of the most desired places in Italy for wedding venues, which is why you're currently driving through the captivating village of Bellagio with Harry the evening before the big day. A year has passed since you were in Salerno together for your third anniversary. A year since he proposed on the secluded beach he rented out for you, bent down on one knee with shaky hands holding a pink velvet ring box that encapsulated evermore. 

Now you're back and ready to marry the man who has one hand on the steering wheel of the vintage car and the other resting on your thigh.

Bellagio, which juts into Lake Como, greets you with cobblestone streets hugged by dainty shops and restaurants. Stucco and terracotta houses painted with pastel colors sit with their wooden shutters open, plants on their balconies, and ivy climbing their walls. Everything is perfectly placed and flourishing under the European sky. 

A boat launch is where both of you are headed since the sun will be setting soon, and being on the lake is where tourists say it is the most idyllic place to admire. You're going to rent a private speedboat for two hours to wind down and spend time together on the alpine waters before being the center of attention tomorrow. 

The narrow backroads lead to the pier, where many boats are docked. Harry has brought a comically large backpack filled with various snacks, books, and other items to keep busy while on the lake. He's currently humming along to a solemn Italian waltz statically playing through the car's antique radio speakers. His hair whips in the wind, and golden hour light dances across his face.

"I know you're looking at me," he says, gently squeezing your thigh. 

You snap out of your trance and lean over the console to kiss his dimple. "You're just really... bello? Is that how you say pretty?" 

His cheeks flush an endearing shade of pink. "Bello, yeah," he murmurs with a shy smile. "Thank you, baby." 

After another few peaceful minutes of driving, Harry pulls into a parking lot by the docks. The piers bob in the shallow water. The lake is even more stunning up close, with delicate ripples and a mountainous backdrop that resembles a contemporary impressionist painting. 

As you gaze upon the elegant villas sitting along the coastal cliffs, the passenger door swings open, a gentlemen-like gesture Harry always makes, no matter how many times you've told him you're entirely capable. You sling your tote bag over your shoulder and pick up Harry's backpack, which is crammed in the space behind the seats. You hand it to him and then interlock your fingers with his before walking to the launch. Luxurious boats rock in the water; their exteriors are glossy and classic, and their interiors are more modern with white leather seats. 

"Ciao, siamo qui per il noleggio di due ore," Harry greets the group of men standing on the pier with cigars poking from their lips.

They all smile and wave the both of you over. Harry initiates a foreign conversation with them that you can't understand, save for a few fleeting words. Eventually, one of them claps their hands together and leads you to a speed boat. As the other men remove the ropes that secure it, Harry reaches his hand out to help you step on. He then guides you to the driver's seat, sitting down and settling you on his lap as he sticks the key into the ignition.

"Ready, cipollino?" he asks, recalling the nickname he gave you last year while tipsy under a streetlight. His hand rests on the curve of your back as the engine rumbles to life. 

"Yeah," you reply with an eager nod. "And stop calling me that!"

"What should I call you, then?" 

"Your wife." 

"Not yet, darling." He kisses your neck and then looks behind him, giving the men a thumbs-up.

They return his gesture, and he doesn't waste any more time as he pushes the throttle forward, making the boat lurch. With your legs draped over his, the village becomes farther away. Sailboats and ferries float on the water, and Italian flags are proudly attached to them. 

The speed creates swells of water that refreshingly spray your skin as you lean your cheek against the top of Harry's head. He steers with one hand as the other reaches down to unzip his backpack. He sifts through the belongings, eventually taking out a container of mixed cheese cubes he bought a couple of days ago when he went shopping at a local food market. 

"Close your eyes and guess," he says over the gusty breeze, hiding the container behind his back. 

You close them and open your mouth so he can feed you. You hear him snap the container's top off and then feel a cheese cube on your tongue. You chew it, humming thoughtfully while you figure out the distinct flavor. 

"Provolone. That's too easy," you say after swallowing. "Give me another one." 

A second piece is given; this time, it's a uniquely rich flavor you've never tasted. You decide to just guess fancy names you've heard in passing. "Um, mascarpone? No, wait. Gorgonzola?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. I have no bloody clue what it is." You laugh and open your eyes, but Harry quickly covers them with his large hand. "One more," he murmurs cutely. 

Parting your lips again, you wait for another piece of unknown cheese. However, a pair of soft lips capture your mouth instead. You feel Harry smirk against it, causing you to tilt your head with a bright smile. 

"Was that too cheesy?" he asks, playfully tickling your ribs before cutting the engine so the boat can drift. "Eh? Get it?" 

You drape your arms over his broad shoulders. "How long have you been waiting to say that?"

He scoffs under his breath. "What do you mean? I come up with these killer jokes on the spot." 

"Oh yeah?" you challenge, calling his bluff. "Tell me another one." 

Harry pouts his lips and thinks. "Let's see. Give me a second; I have loads of good ones." You giggle into his neck as he struggles. "Okay, I've got it. Why does water never laugh at jokes?" 

"I don't know. Why?" 

He cradles your head and whispers in your ear, "It isn't a fan of dry humor." 

You lean back and narrow your eyes at him. "That was terrible." 

He pretends to throw you overboard, leaving you squealing and holding on tight to his shirt. "Sii gentile."

The following two hours are spent cruising around the lake, pointing out extravagant architecture, and reading the several translated Italian romance novels you bought from an independent bookstore. The mountains are hazy due to the clouds drifting past the jagged crests. The faraway sounds of ferry horns and coos from the wading birds provide a serene atmosphere. You don't plan to remove yourself from Harry's lap anytime soon since his calm breathing and affectionate kisses against your skin make you fall into a blissful reverie. 

It doesn't feel like the wedding is tomorrow. The reality hasn't quite hit you yet; you've always felt like it's been some unreachable day that won't ever happen. But now you sense the forthcoming nerves and anticipation somewhere deep in your bones. 

There's only one more sunrise until he's eternally yours. 

Once the sun has plunged below the horizon and left a blended tangerine and turquoise sky in its wake, Harry lets you take control of the steering wheel to drive the boat back to the docks. You successfully maneuver it between two narrow piers. The men that previously helped get up from their chairs and come over with rope. Harry takes the key out of the ignition, puts his backpack on, and then grabs your hand and ushers you to land. 

"Grazie per la vostra generosità," he tells them with a hand on his heart. "Buonanotte." 

"Sei il benvenuto," replies one of the men with a kind bow. "Guidare sicuri."

The both of you smile and walk to the parking lot, getting back in the car.

"That was so relaxing," you say as you slightly recline the seat and sigh happily.

"Mm-hmm." Harry rubs his full stomach and yawns. "I'm definitely going to sleep like a baby tonight." 

"Really? I think I'll be up all night with anxiety." 

"Why? Getting cold feet already?" 

"No, just nerves," you say. "It's a life-changing event we've been planning for so long." 

His thumb strokes the back of your hand as he starts driving. "I don't know about you, but I'm pretty confident I made the right choice in marrying you." 

"I'm not doubting that. I just—" 

"I know, love," he interrupts softly. "I'll probably be a jittery mess tomorrow if it makes you feel any better." 

You give him a reassuring glance before closing your eyes while he takes the backroads that lead to the villa. The windows are rolled down, warm air envelops your face, and the smell of bread makes you hungry again. Harry will often read the random names of restaurants and shops that he passes or quietly hiccup from all the food he ate earlier. 

Just as everything becomes background noise, you suddenly feel the car slow down and jerk to a stop. You open your eyes and see that you're on a flat bridge made of gray cobblestone that connects the downtown area to a dirt path lined with cottages. You look over at Harry and find him staring at you with an indecipherable expression, his mouth downturned, and his eyes dancing between yours. 

"I think there's something wrong with the car," he says. 

"What?" 

"It just stopped." He scratches his jaw and sighs. I'm pressing on the gas, but it's not moving." 

You blink in confusion. "The car is in park, Harry. 

"No, I think the car just broke down. Stay here. Let me check under the hood." 

"Just put it in drive. Nothing's wrong with it." 

Harry ignores you and opens the door, getting out and slowly walking to the front. His hands place themselves on his hips as he bends his knees and studies the car, like he knows what he's doing. He definitely does not. 

"Hey!" he calls out, pointing a finger somewhere next to you. "It's a little chilly out. Do you mind grabbing my suit jacket from under my seat?" 

Suit jacket? What is he talking about? You turn your head and reach under the driver's seat to blindly grab the jacket he apparently brought along. You feel a soft material against your fingertips, and you pick it up and set it on your lap. Sure enough, it's a suit jacket that's neatly folded and the color of a robin's egg. You've never seen it before, and you don't know when he could have possibly bought it since you've been inseparable since arriving in Italy. 

You hold it up, and Harry grins, shuffling over to the passenger window. You notice that the stripes on his button-up perfectly match the jacket. Interesting.

"Grazie," he says nonchalantly, taking it from you and putting it on. "Fits like a glove. Speaking of..." 

You cross your arms over the window and rest your chin on them. "You're acting really suspicious right now, and I suggest you tell me what's going on before I cancel the wedding." 

Harry simply laughs and heads over to the hood. You watch as he reaches into his suit pocket, pulling out a pair of white gloves made of lace. 

Now you're concerned. 

He gazes up at you from under his eyelashes and smirks, putting on the gloves like he's about to perform surgery. "What?" he asks while straightening his collar. "I don't want to get my hands dirty." 

You shake your head in disbelief. "Where did you even get those?" 

He ignores you once again and pulls out his phone. He types something briefly and then holds it against his ear. "Towing company," he mouths to you, pointing at his phone with a wink. 

You're speechless as you sit in the car, wondering what he mysteriously has up his sleeve. You're not stupid; there's obviously something going on because the car clearly has not broken down, and he's calling a towing company for some reason. 

During the short conversation, you listen to him speak Italian in a low murmur, and before you know it, he's hanging up and strolling toward the metal railing of the bridge. He puts his hands in his pockets and paces back and forth, looking up at the peach-colored sky and then out at the sapphire-blue water. 

As you're about to step out and join whatever he's doing, you hear distant music start playing. You look out the window and see a group of people walking in your direction, all holding instruments such as mandolins, horns, and accordions. Harry is also walking your way in your peripheral vision, a cheeky expression on his face. 

You don't know where to look, but your ears recognize the familiar tune of "That's Amore" by Dean Martin when the group starts singing. Harry quickly rounds to the front of the car and does a clumsy spin, then leans his body and elbow on the hood, lifting one foot up as he begins mouthing along to the lyrics with a satisfied smile. 

"Dance with me, amante."

You release a shocked laugh and join him. "Did you plan all this?" 

He daintily sticks out his gloved hand for you to take. "I might have researched Italian wedding traditions a while ago. One of them involves serenading the bride from outside her window, but... I put my own twist on it, I guess. The car didn't actually break down." 

You hum against his chest as he begins swaying you. "Yeah, I caught onto that pretty quickly." 

"I'm a shit liar," he mumbles into your hair, giving you a twirl. "Anyway, the bride is supposed to lower down a basket of bread, cheese, and prosciutto to accept the marriage." His hand leaves your waist to dig into his pocket. "And my darling, I just happen to have some leftover cheese cubes. Would you be so kind as to do the honors?" 

He pulls out a small bag with only three pieces of cheese left. He takes one out and holds it gently between his fingertips. You take it and dramatically clear your throat. "Harry Styles, I accept this marriage. I cannot wait until tomorrow." 

Grabbing your wrist, he pops the cheese into his mouth, grinning widely as he chews. "I accept your acceptance." 

You continue slow dancing on the bridge as the song crescendos, the singers happily crooning the love-filled lyrics while you're pressed close to Harry. 

Tomorrow can't come soon enough. 

——

White silk with a subtle hue of lavender feels cool against your skin, the thin fabric of your dress lightly blowing in the breeze. 

Harry is right around the corner, probably fidgeting with his fingers behind his back, toeing the ground, and ensuring his outfit is wrinkle-free. You can almost feel his energy, along with the collection of yours and Harry's close family and friends who flew out for the wedding. You hear them distantly chatter as they wait for your arrival. 

Deep breaths are the only kind you've been taking all day, and you're surprised the pendant of your necklace isn't shaking from how hard and fast your heart is pounding. You haven't seen Harry since you fell asleep next to him last night, knowing he planned to sneakily slip out of the villa to get ready with his groomsmen early in the morning. 

It's evening, so a golden tint casts over everything. The private ceremony occurs outside the lakeside courtyard, surrounded by lush gardens and pathways shaded by trees. The white aisle is rolled out, and a tall, flowered arch can be seen from where you stand behind the trimmed hedges. Stone statues guard the premises, some with moss and chipped bodies. 

As you focus on a yellow butterfly that lands on a blade of grass, you suddenly hear the ceremonial music begin playing. Someone behind you squeezes your shoulders and gently pushes you, whispering encouraging words in your ear. You're too distracted by the movement of your dress to comprehend them as you begin walking down the aisle. 

Watch your step. 

One foot in front of the other. 

Don't trip. 

Yet when you finally turn the corner, keeping your eyes on the ground is impossible. It's as if everything happens in slow motion. You hear excited gasps and violins in your ears, but your eyes are your strongest sense at the moment. They naturally gravitate upward to find Harry. He's wearing all silk, just like the both of you planned, along with the same hue of lavender threaded into the fabric. Silk trousers with a silk dress shirt tucked into them and white suspenders. A couple buttons are undone. 

He's so stupidly handsome.

Once your gaze meets his, matching smiles of pure love take over both of your faces. His is a dimpled one that leaves you breathless, and yours is a gentle one that makes his tears spill over. 

You see him roll his trembling lips in, looking down with a soft laugh and a sniffle. When you reach him, you accept his bouquet of flowers and stand face-to-face with him for the first time today.

"You look gorgeous," he whispers while shaking his head in awe.

"You look pretty," you whisper back. 

He bites the inside of his cheek and glances down at your lips. "I want to kiss you, but I can't."

You laugh and look at the officiant when he raises his hands. "Welcome, everyone," he says. You may be seated." 

Everyone sits, and you exhale a long breath. You feel Harry squeeze your hands as the officiant drones on about the joining of the couple and what lifelong commitment means. You're not listening; you're too lost in Harry's teary eyes as they roam your face and dress. 

"Is the bride ready to say her vows?" 

You snap your head to the side and nod, a little embarrassed that you zoned out during what were probably important and sentimental words. 

You release Harry's hands and take the folded note from your bra, making the crowd laugh. Harry rolls his eyes with a smirk. As you smooth the paper's creases, you feel your throat bob with emotion, thinking about how you poured every bit of your soul into the inked words you wrote for him. 

Inhaling deeply, you swallow the lump in your throat. "Harry," you say with a tender squeeze of his sweaty hand, "you are someone who I believe comes into people's lives with a purpose. You came into mine when I wasn't looking for love, but you swept me off my feet with your kindness and attentive nature. I'm so in love with you, truly. When your eyes crinkle with laughter or when you remember intricate details about me. I even love the annoying things, like how you really love peas or how you have to turn the radio down when the roads are busy so you can concentrate. Everything you do and say is beautiful. Your presence is graceful and warm. I'm so thankful I get to be around it for the rest of my life. I love you and promise to do so through every moment, whether rain or shine. Ti amo." 

When you finish, your cheeks are damp with tears as the crowd claps. Harry looks past you, quickly wiping under his eyes. 

"And would the groom like to say his vows?" asks the officiant. 

"Yeah, one second," Harry says as he tilts his head and blinks back tears. He looks back down and takes his vows out of his sock. 

"Ew," you say.

"Shush," he says with a smirk. "Okay, um... I'm going to try to get through this without completely losing it." He clears his throat. "So, I wrote this last night when you were sleeping. I wasn't procrastinating; I just wanted to write it when my emotions were high." 

He unfolds the paper and straightens his posture. "I love you so much. You know it. Everyone knows it. You've had me whipped since I met you, and I swear it's only gotten worse over the years. I told you when I proposed that I was weak for you. Well, I still am. Always will be. Because I hang onto every word you speak, and my heart beats like a madman every time you look at me. The tremendous love you give me is something I don't deserve. It keeps me going, and the fact that I get to feel it for a lifetime makes me the happiest man in the world. Ti amo forever." 

You let out a soft sob and dab under your eyes with your knuckle so your makeup doesn't smear. You secretly give Harry the middle finger for making you cry, and he gives one back, making your family and friends cackle. 

"Now for the rings." The officiant hands both of you your designated bands and then looks at you first. "Does the bride take the groom to be her lawfully wedded husband?" 

You slide the gold band onto Harry's ring finger, his hand shaking. "Lo voglio." 

He seems surprised by your unexpected Italian, raising his eyebrows.

"And does the groom take the bride as his lawfully wedded wife?" 

Harry slides your ring on. "Lo voglio," he repeats confidently. 

"Then it is my delight and honor to now pronounce you husband and wife," concludes the officiant. "Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for Mr. and Mrs. Styles!" 

Everyone stands and cheers, hollering in celebration. Harry spreads his arms and pumps his fists with a wide smile. 

"Can I kiss him?" you ask impatiently. 

The officiant laughs and nods. "Yes, you may kiss the groom." 

You immediately grab Harry's cheeks and slot your mouth over his, feeling his arms tightly wrap around your waist as he dips you toward the ground. The crowd whoops, and camera shutters click, capturing the official moment.

"Mrs. Styles," Harry murmurs against your lips, kissing them repeatedly until they ache. 

You grab his hand and walk down the aisle together, waving and smiling at your families as they throw white flower petals in your path. There's a green convertible parked at the end, a getaway car of sorts, for you and Harry to take to the reception. It has a wreath hung across the trunk and bottles of alcohol and bread in a basket on the console. Harry opens the door for you as family and friends gather around, taking pictures and chatting with one another. 

"Wait, we have to change into our outfits before we get there," you say abruptly as he begins slowly driving away. "We didn't think this through." 

When you and Harry were planning the wedding, you agreed that you should both change into comfortable party outfits for the reception so it would be easier to move around and dance. Outfits the others hadn't seen yet were picked out and secretly packed in separate suitcases. 

You took a risk with yours, to say the least. 

"No," he gasps dramatically. "What are we possibly going to do? Bloody hell, we'll have to change in the woods!" 

You smack his arm. "Shut up, I'm serious! I've been waiting all year to show you my outfit. We have to stop somewhere." 

"Love, we can just change in the bathrooms once we get there." 

"Fine. Hurry up, though. I'm excited." 

He rolls his eyes and presses on the gas pedal harder. 

After about ten minutes, you arrive at the outdoor reception area, which has circular tables and chairs on the lawn with a dance floor in the middle. String lights decorate the low-hanging trees, and some people are already gathered with flutes of champagne and plates of appetizers in their hands. 

Harry parks the car and grabs your suitcases, sneakily going around the back of the old-fashioned estate that the venue is a part of. A security guard, wearing sunglasses and an earpiece, stands straight as a pin in front of the fancy double doors. 

"Excuse me, sir," Harry says, never letting go of your hand. "Where's the nearest bathroom?" 

He clears his throat and looks him up and down suspiciously. "Take the first left. The door is the fourth one on your right." 

"Thank you!" you call out from behind, since Harry is already dragging you down the porcelain hallway. 

Once you reach the bathrooms, Harry enters one stall while you go into the other. You're both breathing heavily and giggling as you unclasp your suitcases and pull out your outfits.

Yours is a rose gold mesh bodycon dress decorated with rhinestones that came with long, matching gloves. Your beige underwear and bra will be visible under it, but that's the intended purpose. You also bought a faux fur boa scarf to hook around your elbows. You unzip your wedding dress and slip on the other one, then walk out of the stall with your empty suitcase. 

Harry walks out a minute later, and your knees weaken. He's wearing a suit jacket and trousers with no shirt underneath. What's even more incredible is that the color of the sequined material is almost the exact shade of what you're wearing.

"Shut up," Harry says with a laugh of disbelief. "No way we picked the same color." 

All you can respond with is, "Your tits are out."

He looks down at them. "Yeah... I suppose they are." 

"You look so hot." 

"So do you." He runs his hands from your waist down to your ass. "You look dazzling, Mrs. fuckin' Styles." 

"Don't start anything," you warn, gripping the lapels of his suit. "We need to say hello to everyone." 

He smirks. "It's crazy that we thought of the same color. I was going to buy a white vest and matching pants, but something told me to get this instead." 

"That just means you have good fashion intuition." 

"No, I think it means we're soulmates." 

You kiss him. "That, too. C'mon, let's go before people get bored." 

The reception commences, and hugs and well wishes are all around as you and Harry wander the lawn hand in hand. The weather is perfect, and the sun isn't too sweltering because of the breeze from the nearby lake. 

Hours pass, the moon is out, and string lights twinkle around the venue. The dance floor has been open for a while, and everyone is a little tipsy and sweaty as they dance with each other. You've already done the first dance with Harry, swaying to "Moonlight Serenade" by Frank Sinatra as he whispered sweet nothings with his forehead pressed against yours. 

After another slow song ends and couples find other people to dance with, "Careless Whisper" starts playing. Harry screeches in your face while shaking your shoulders. 

When the bridge plays, he gets down on his knees before you and belts the lyrics, his hair falling in his face as his outfit shimmers from the strobe lights. You put the fur boa around his neck and pull him closer. His hands run up the length of your legs, eventually reaching your hands as you help him. 

"My pants just ripped!" he yells over the music. 

"Seriously?!" you yell back with wide eyes.

He tilts his head back and laughs with his hands resting on his exposed stomach. You immediately spot the small, ripped seam on his right thigh and begin laughing along with him. It's not even that funny, but cloud nine lifts you too high to care. 

The party goes on, and people slowly leave as midnight nears. Soon enough, it's just you and Harry left as the music volume lowers and the chairs start being put away. You eventually stumble with flushed cheeks and giddy smiles to the sleek black limo waiting at the front of the estate. 

"Where am I taking the happy couple?" asks the driver.

"Villa Balbiano, please," Harry replies. "And turn the music up loud, yeah? Apologies in advance." 

The both of you clamber into the back of the limo, immediately putting the partition up. You straddle Harry's parted thighs as he begins massaging your breasts. "Take your bra off. Let me see your tits under this dress." 

You unclip your bra, sliding it off and tossing it to the side. Harry kneads your ass and tilts his head back against the headrest, the veins in his perspiring neck becoming noticeable. 

"I'm so gone for you," he says, biting your thumb as if restraining himself from doing a more provocative act. 

"That's sweet." You climb off his lap and sit beside him, putting your seatbelt on. "But you'll have to wait." 

His jaw clenches in annoyance, and you grin. You love giving him whiplash. 

The ride to the villa is short but filled with tension. Harry broodingly looks out the window when the driver pulls into the gravel driveway, his right hand gripping the edge of the seat, his thighs tense.

Once the car is parked, Harry kindly squeezes the driver's shoulder, opens the door, and gets out. In an instant, your door is opened, and you're suddenly scooped up and thrown over Harry's shoulder as he walks up the driveway toward the arched doors. He navigates through the spacious rooms and up the grand staircase in complete silence. 

You know what you're in for. 

Harry tosses you on the king-size bed and crawls over you, placing his forearms on either side of your body. His cross necklace dangles over you, which is ironic considering how he's looking at you right now. 

"Gonna let me fuck my wife, or do I have to wait for that too?" he asks lowly, leaving open-mouthed kisses on your breasts and keeping eye contact with you. 

You bite your lip and slide the straps of your dress down, quickly slipping it off. Harry then grabs your wrist and uses his teeth to take one of your gloves, biting the fabric at the top of your fingertips. They're long and tight, so he struggles, huffing and closing his eyes in disappointment. 

"This is supposed to be sexy. Stop making fun of me," Harry says with a defeated laugh, taking the route of just yanking them off and throwing them on the floor. 

"I didn't say anything," you say, covering your mouth so you don't let a laugh escape. "And those are really expensive, Harry!" 

He just shushes you and takes your underwear off. He then buries his face into your inner thigh as you spread your legs open. You're already wet; your warm arousal is sticking to your skin. He laps some of it up and rumbles a groan. 

"Will you let your husband take care of you tonight? Hmm? Tell me." 

"God, Harry." You whine when his nose nudges your aching clit. "Yes. Please." 

"So polite for me." He teasingly licks the inside of you with one stroke of his tongue, but it's not enough. "Such a good girl that was dressed like a filthy slut tonight." 

"Says you," you reply breathlessly. "You had your tits out all night while you danced with my grandma." 

Harry hums a laugh and pushes his nose forward, making you wrap your legs around his waist and arch your back on the bed. He lets out a long moan, beginning to unapologetically lick every last slick drop of arousal that seems to keep pouring out. His hands grip your thighs so tight that you're positive there will be bruises left from his rings. 

His quiet moans and suckling are muffled by his face pressed right up against your pussy, his hair tickling the bottom of your stomach as his head tilts with each new angle he tries. Your mouth is parted open, and desperate whimpers leave it as your hands tug at his curls. 

You know he won't use his fingers; he's always keen on making you come with just one method. You feel dizzy from the tingling sensation in your thighs and core; your orgasm is knotting with a deep ache. 

"I'm going to come," you tell him, digging your heel into his back. "Harry, I'm going... I feel it. I can't hold it."

What he does next is heaven. Without moving his head or stopping his tongue, he lifts his hand and presses his large palm down on your lower stomach, massaging it in small circles to help coax the swelling pleasure out. Just as you feel as though you're about to burst, he removes his tongue and lifts his head. 

"No, no, no," you say, jerking your hips up. 

"Hey, look at me," Harry demands, his lips swollen and glistening. "What's wrong? Am I being mean?" 

"I hate you." 

"That's no way to talk to your husband, now is it?" He unbuttons his trousers and takes them off, along with his boxers. "What makes you think I'm not going to stuff you full right now with my cock? Or is that not what you want?" 

You catch your breath and swallow, your throat feeling terribly dry. "No, I want it. I do."

Harry squeezes his throbbing cock and hovers over you with one hand placed next to your head, his arm bulging and sheening with sweat. It isn't going to take long for you to come undone. 

"Yeah?" He reaches over to the nightstand and grabs a condom from the drawer. "You like it when I'm that deep inside you?" he asks, tearing the package open. 

"It's my favorite part." 

He rolls the condom on and kisses your knee. "Is that what you want?" His voice is now soft as he strokes strands of hair from your face. "You want me to be nice and give you what you want?" 

"I know you like it too," you whisper. "Don't even try to lie." 

He smirks while running his tongue across his teeth. "And how would you know that?" 

"Because you always put your hand right here"—you grab his hand and gently place it below your navel—"to feel it. Your eyes roll back every time. I love it." 

His nostrils flare. "You love watching me? How did I not know this about my wife?" 

"You're too fucking gone for me to notice," you say, repeating his words from earlier. 

He nearly growls, lining himself up with your entrance before thrusting in with no warning. You gasp, holding onto his shoulders as he rocks inside of you, his cock burning past your walls. The headboard hits the wall with each of his powerful thrusts, and you moan pitifully when he goes long and deep. One of his hands holds onto the top of the headboard, and the other holds your limp hand on the sheets. 

"So tight," Harry breathes out. "How do you fit all of me, huh? You're so tight and pretty." 

Your legs ache as they bend from the force he pounds into you. He sloppily kisses your lips, his teeth knocking against yours and pleading moans escaping into your mouth. His scruff rubs against your face as he continues thrusting faster and faster until the knot forms again, this time stronger than before. You can feel him in the pit of your stomach, leaving you breathless and crazed when his abs move against the slight bulge that forms there. 

"There we go," he praises. "That's it, baby. Is that what you needed?" 

After another couple of thrusts and encouragements from him, you arch and release while gripping his hand and looking into his eyes. Harry comes at the same time, rutting his hips into yours as he shudders with a deep, guttural moan against your neck. 

He hums, pulling out and cradling your cheeks. "You good?" 

You nod, watching him quickly discard the condom and flop on top of your heaving body. Everything feels hot: the sweat dripping down your hairline and Harry's skin sticking to yours. 

"Thank you," you say hoarsely. 

"For what, giving you an orgasm?" he asks with a laugh. 

"For everything," you reply, running your fingers through his damp hair. "I always feel like I'm floating around you." 

"I'm your cloud." 

"That oddly makes sense. How do you say that in Italian?"

He starts giggling into your chest, dimples carving his flushed cheeks. "Nube." 

You scoff. "Did you just call me a noob?" 

His head whips up as he says, "No. Nube means cloud in Italian." 

"Nube… that's funny." The both of you start silently laughing at each other, slowly coming down from the high. 

"Shit." Harry exhales. "Someone left us some wine." 

You turn your head to where he's looking and see a wine bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag on the dresser. There's also a little note attached to it. 

Harry gets out of bed and walks over to it with his ass on full display, making you start giggling again. He grabs the wine and gets under the sheets, weaving his legs with yours. 

You take it from him, popping the cork and raising the bottle. "Cheers to us. Ti amo forever, nube." 

He grabs your hand and kisses the ring on your finger. "Ti amo, Mrs. Styles." 

You take a swig, letting the crisp sweetness coat your throat before Harry has some. 

You've come to realize that bliss can be tangible. Silk sheets and red wine. Heated skin and purposeful touches. Soft eyes and kisses just because. If you could, you would bottle this moment up to drink, letting the liquified love permanently stain your soul. 

——

[thesoccerenthusiast]

Alejandro x Heather | Valentine's Day Headcanons

Inspired by @iluminaru to do some headcanons for my ultimate favorite power-couple, Aleheather (Alejandro Burromuerto x Heather).

This is my first time doing headcanons, so don't roast me too badly!

AleHeather Valentine's Day (& Romance in General) Headcanons

Alejandro brings Heather a bouquet of roses not just in the morning, but multiple times throughout the day. Heather wakes up to a dozen roses, comes home from work with a dozen roses and presents another dozen roses after dinner.

Alejandro loves to cook, so he would prefer a romantic dinner at home. But Heather likes to go out, so they would compromise: an Alejandro-made dinner at home, go out for dessert.

After their dessert, Alejandro and Heather go dancing together. He loves to salsa, while she wants to waltz. They do both, of course.

Heather isn't the biggest Valentine's Day fan. She was definitely one of those kids that got the least, or none at all, Valentine's at school.

Heather isn't the best gift-giver, but she always manages to hit it out the park with Alejandro. She always gets him a watch with some romantic saying engraved. Alejandro, the ultimate romantic, tears up at every engraving.

Usually, Alejandro gives Heather massages after she dances, so for Valentine's Day, she treats him to a massage, candlelights and all.

Alejandro makes sure to send his mother and Heather's mother bouquets for Valentine's Day, signing both his and Heather's names on the card.

Alejandro would love to propose to Heather on a holiday like Valentine's Day, but Heather is against holiday proposals, calling them 'tacky.'

For every 50 times Alejandro says "I love you," Heather says it back once. She's not good at expressing her emotions with words.

Alejandro is a very physical person. He always wants to hold Heather's hand, run his fingers through her hair or keep a hand on her shoulder or back. Heather doesn't mind it at all, but she won't be the one reaching for Al's hand.

Heather affectionately calls Alejandro by the nickname that only she is allowed to use: Alé.

Heather won't admit it out loud, but her actions explain it all: she is a BIG FAN of cuddling. Alejandro's arms around her always make her feel warm and safe.

Whenever Heather initiates the cuddling, Alejandro has to do his best not to get too excited. Heather finds it weird that Alejandro is so emotional about everything.

Alejandro's presents for Heather — usually for a birthday, Valentine's Day or anniversary — always include going on a trip, whether it be somewhere tropical or somewhere European. Heather says where, Alejandro buys the ticket.

Alejandro is a big fan of wine tastings and vineyards, so Heather will usually include that with any present, as well.

Let me know your Valentine's Day or romance headcanons for Aleheather!

[morbidology]

Reynella is a city located in the southern suburb of Adelaide in South Australia. It developed from a small settlement into a thriving suburb.

Its history dates back to the early 19th century when it was first settled by European colonists.

The area is named after John Reynell, who arrived in South Australia in 1838. Reynell was a pioneer in the region, establishing one of the first vineyards in South Australia.

As the 20th century progressed, Reynella saw industrial growth alongside its agricultural roots. The establishment of the Reynella Brickworks in the early 1900s marked a significant shift.

The post-World War II era brought significant changes to Reynella. The population boom and expansion of Adelaide's suburbs led to increased residential development.

Today, Reynella is a well-established suburb known for its blend of historical charm and modern amenities. It features a mix of residential areas, commercial centers, and green spaces.

On the morning of the 4th of December, 2008, Roger Zadow was preparing his morning coffee in the kitchen of his home on Somerfield Avenue in Reynella.

As the kettle boiled, he glanced out the kitchen window towards his neighbour’s home, where 83-year-old Vonne McGlynn lived alone.

Something immediately caught Roger’s eye.

The bins, which were typically emptied that morning, were still full and not in their usual spot by the fence. Instead, they were placed haphazardly near Vonne’s shed.

This small detail sparked a sense of unease in Roger, as Vonne was meticulous about her routine. Curious and concerned, Roger stepped outside to get a closer look.

As he walked towards the fence separating their properties, he noticed something even more alarming. Several tiles were missing from Vonne’s roof, creating a conspicuous gap.

The hole was large enough for someone to enter…

This week’s episode covers the case of Vonne McGlynn. You can listen to episode 268 of Morbidology across all podcast platforms:

𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞: https://bit.ly/3WS9H7d

𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲: https://bit.ly/4dxUbD7