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politicalmamaduck · 5 years

Note

So, I hope this is something meaty enough for you to sink your teeth into: historical AU, mysterious Byronic anti-hero Ben Solo with innocent (but not as innocent as she seems) Rey. Gothic romance vibes. Basically, the Jane Eyre (2011) soundtrack - YouTube/watch?v=KwScERaAqSU

I truly and honestly don’t remember how long it’s been since you sent me this prompt, my dear @luminoustico, but I hope the wait will have been worth it, for you provided the original inspiration for my Jane Eyre AU for this year’s @reylofanfictionanthology, Amid Secrets and Monsters.

As always, a huge thank you to my beta boo @rapturousaurora and to my RFFA mod editor sisters, @shmisolo and @shelikespretties.

This is not a strict adaptation of Jane Eyre, unlike all of my Reylo Austen AUs, as there is no “madwoman in the attic”; instead, Snoke lives in Ben and Rey’s manor wing, and rather than a governess to a ward, Rey is a companion for Leia. I wanted to emphasize the psychological horror of war regarding Ben as a veteran with PTSD and Snoke’s abuse in this fic, as a more modern-day twist on the Gothic tale we all know and love.

Read it on AO3 here.

you transfix me quite

It was as if a great shadow had descended upon Aldera Hall. Queer tales were told in the nearby village of strange happenings at night and bloodsoaked sheets that even the most skilled and robust laundresses could not wash out. Ghosts were said to wander the broad Yorkshire moors. These tales were once scoffed at by the hearty villagers, but they had gained currency of late. The ancient house was said to be haunted; not just by the spectres of the past, souls that had not yet gone on to rest, but by the sins of the present and wounds that could not be properly healed.

The manor’s mistress, the great Lady Organa, Duchess of Alderaan, was away on the Continent, leaving the management of her ancestral lands to her son, Benjamin Solo, a decorated officer in his own right after abandoning his studies at Oxford to find his fame fighting in his uncle’s regiment against Napoleon. The village parson remembered the great lady’s soul in his prayers each day, and exhorted the villagers to pray for her and her family at each Sunday service.

It was rumored that the Duchess’s brother and son had a disastrous falling out, and that young Ben Solo had returned from the wars not quite himself, with another commanding officer in tow. This mysterious elder gentleman called Snoke was never seen in the village, but Ben Solo generously allowed him to remain at Aldera Hall.

“I do wish Lord Skywalker would return from the islands,” many in the village would say, only to be reminded by their compatriots of the enmity existing between the wise old soldier and the mysterious figure who had so taken Lord Solo under his sway. Many whispered further that Lord Snoke was the cause of the supposed hauntings, that he performed gruesome experiments on wounded soldiers during the war, or that he himself was a ghost, a spectre of evil come back for revenge.

The two bachelors lived alone amidst the ghosts and tragedies of years gone by, it was said, until Lady Organa returned from Paris, declaring herself retired, and her son placed an advertisement for a genteel lady companion for his mother. His father General Solo had gone to a watery grave in the Atlantic, God rest his soul.

Ben Solo’s advertisement seeking a suitable companion, or secretary, perhaps, for Lady Organa was answered by a Miss Rey Johnson from Lancashire. She had been well-trained as a teacher and governess at the Lowood School in that county. She described herself as a hard worker, she could speak French, and her lack of familial entanglements was looked upon favorably by her prospective employer. Prior to her education, she came from an orphanage maintained by Mr. Unkar Plutt, who by all accounts was a strict master who often sent the younglings out as hired help.

The young lady’s arrival in the village was greatly anticipated by all, many of the old matrons remembering her in their silent prayers at the local church on Sunday mornings. A young lady would do the old house—and family—some good, they thought. Perhaps the rumors were just that after all, they reassured themselves while they made the Sign of the Cross and looked over their shoulders. Tall tales and queer happenings were nothing compared to the modern age, or the Continental war with its own set of horrors caused by the Emperor.

There were others in the village, however, who took it upon themselves to warn the young lady when she arrived. “The Skywalker family, from whom Lady Organa and her son are descended, had a history of extreme and violent behavior,” a wizened old crone told the governess, clasping her arm. “They’ve all been powerful, and brilliant, yes, and good-looking, but take care, miss. Something’s not quite right up in that old house. Lord Solo hasn’t been the same since he came back from the war with that older fellow.”

Rey smiled graciously, and thanked the woman for her concerns, but put those thoughts far from her mind as she hurried along to meet her new employers.

Lady Organa received Ms. Johnson warmly, welcoming her to Aldera Hall and reassuring her that she was free to explore the entirety of the house and grounds and make herself comfortable, save the wing occupied by Lord Snoke, about whom Lady Organa would say no more. In reply, Rey thanked her and urged her to call her simply Rey, as they would live and work on intimate terms from then forward. Having not grown up with courtly manners, her given name always felt more natural to her, and it was far better than being called simply ‘girl’ by her harsh former master.

And so Rey settled into her days at Aldera Hall, grateful for the support of a genteel noblewoman and an opportunity to build her own life, though her own shadows and ghosts haunted her, as well. The loss of her parents weighed upon her heart and soul; though she knew they were gone to their graves, God rest their souls, she still longed for a family in which to belong, and eagerly hoped that she could build a life for herself in Yorkshire.

It was initially difficult for Rey to converse with Lord Solo; he was scarcely human before a morning cup of tea, and often spent long hours wandering the grounds of his estate. He hacked away at dead trees and bushes with an ancient sword that dated back to the time of the Conqueror, with a unique hilt from which two more blades protruded.

It was Rey’s understanding that many young gentlemen who returned from the war on the Continent bore scars both physical and mental. It seemed Mr. Solo was one such; she could hear him crying out in the middle of the night, caught in yet another nightmare. He often suffered from migraines, rendering him incapable of leaving his canopied bed, the heavy draperies on both the bed and the large window panes drawn tightly shut to prevent the sun’s assault on his weakened state.

It was a horror, one that a country governess, now companion, could not comprehend, though she knew all too well the horrors of the orphanage. Her education and training was her sole pursuit and escape until she gained meaningful employment; her heart would never be entirely full, however, for the loss of her family and the abuse she endured at the hands of a harsh master.

And so she smiled over breakfast while her recalcitrant employer sipped his tea and slowly returned to the land of the living and the light. She offered her opinion when asked, and sought only to improve her employer’s disposition and situation by kindness and compassion. He seemed intrigued by her many drawings, often sketches of the surrounding countryside, or of his mother’s profile while she read or answered her voluminous correspondence. Despite his demeanor, she found Ben Solo to be a respectful employer and an intriguing study for her drawing pencil.

She spent her days often reading aloud to the Lady Organa, who had been a great peer of the realm in her own right. She was wise, kind, and the sort of woman who could converse with anyone. Rey found herself smiling more often than not, certainly more than she ever had before, at Lady Organa’s wry observations and indomitable spirit.

To Rey, Lady Organa became the surrogate mother she never had and for which she had always longed, yet Rey knew in her heart of hearts that her own mother had been no great lady, no astute woman of politics, nothing as compared to the kind, noble being who sat next to her before the fire and offered her the finest tea each day.

The house’s west wing was occupied by Lord Snoke, Ben’s commanding officer. The Lady Organa and Lord Snoke did not acknowledge each other; it seemed often to Rey that her employer’s mother resented the interloper’s influence over her son, though she would not deign to say so in her presence. Indeed, Rey feared the old man; when he walked, he towered over her. His height approached seven feet, and he cast a heavy shadow and a loud gait wherever he went. When he appeared, it seemed as though the temperature in the room would grow colder. Lord Snoke was haughty and condescending in his demeanor; he never called Rey familiarly by her given name, nor respectfully as ‘Miss Johnson’, but only referred to her as ‘child.’ His words were cruel and harsh, and never complimentary, whether of the meals their cook dutifully prepared for them or of Lord Solo and Lady Organa’s efforts to improve the estate. He was dismissive of her and the servants, and so she avoided him, as did Lady Organa; the two were never seen in the same room together.

Spring turned to summer, and summer to autumn, and Rey enjoyed her peaceful life at Aldera Hall, interrupted only by the rumors of ghosts and Ben Solo’s mood swings, which were more pronounced after long training sessions or meetings with Lord Snoke. The two could remain closeted for hours, pouring over maps and charts, or history books related to various military campaigns. When the weather was fine, they were also often out of doors, seemingly practicing readiness or drills for a war long since ended.

It was also after these long sessions that the laundresses spent longer days toiling at their task, the water dripping red and staining their hands, and the dark shadows languishing under Lord Solo’s eyes appeared more like bruises.

Over tea one morning, after the lords had drilled for hours out of doors the previous day and Rey overheard a laundress bemoaning the state of Lord Solo’s clothes, Rey mentioned to Lady Organa that to her, young Lord Solo seemed quite changeful and abrupt.

“He was such even as a child,” the lady replied, “though Snoke’s influence has made his short temper even more pronounced.”

Rey nodded in understanding, though she had limited interactions with both gentlemen as of yet, and none with the supposed ghosts haunting the manor.

Later that evening, as she headed for the library to select a volume to read after dinner, she overheard an impassioned conversation between mother and son.

“He’s using you, and he will turn against you when he learns you cannot provide that which he requires.”

“He is a wise leader.”

“Wars do not make a man great. He cares only for your lineage, our family history and bloodline. He seduced you, but you can still save yourself.”

With that, both hastened to their separate wings of the house, leaving Rey to select her night’s reading with a pounding heart and shaking hands.

Despite his temper, and the abruptness with which he conducted conversations, Rey’s heart was inclined towards Ben Solo. Not only was he the son of the lady she so adored and a great war hero, who all hailed for his great courage and bravado, but she felt keenly for the loss of his father, being an orphan herself. Based on the conversation she overheard, Snoke reminded her painfully of Unkar Plutt. Certainly, should Lord Solo choose to withdraw from his contemplative solitude, he could be a great asset to the nation, or a respected country gentleman, or anything he so chose to be. She trusted and believed that were he to escape Snoke’s influence, she would become acquainted with his true self.

It was with the changing of the seasons that the warm memories of the past six months seemed also to change, as did the character of Aldera Hall itself. The nights became longer, the wind more vicious and severe, and the rumored ghosts finally made their appearance. A rich fall harvest soon became the uncertainty of winter, with trees casting shadows over the white snow covered moors and weak sun- and moonlight to play tricks upon the eyes.

But tonight was peaceful. Rey saw Lady Organa to her chambers, then retired to her own, relishing the luxuries of as many candles as she could possibly need or want and the hall’s enormous library. She settled in to read, a cup of tea nearby and a blanket across her lap, when the air seemed to drop precipitously in temperature. No storm had passed by; the moors lay quiet and dormant, and all of the hall’s occupants, servants included, had gone to bed.

It was altogether too quiet. Rey found herself awake and alert, as if waiting for something to occur.

A dark, malignant laugh echoed through the halls. It was no ordinary laugh, from no ordinary human.

Though she was certain it was but a trick of the light, Rey thought she saw a huge shadow pass by her door. It was at that moment that Niney, Ben’s black dog, began barking ferociously, and the shadow seemed to retreat, to slink back to whatever hell from whence it came.

Rey did not leave her chamber again that evening; she did not dare. Nor did she dare to mention the incident over breakfast with Mr. Solo the next morning. He seemed more exhausted than usual; dark shadows circled his eyes, and he hardly spoke.

The sun was glowing strongly when Rey went to Lady Organa’s parlor. The elder woman too appeared fatigued, and when Rey sat down upon her usual chaise, the lady rose from her desk and approached, sitting next to her. Lady Organa took Rey’s hand, clasping it to her and squeezing gently.

“Snoke is unbalanced,” she said. “He’s been preying on my son for far too long.”

“What can we do?” Rey asked, looking into the eyes of a mother losing her greatest hope.

“I thought that my brother would be able to help him. I sent Ben to him, but that was when I lost him.”

“If I go to Ben on your behalf, will he listen? Would he return your affection and affiliation?”

“I don’t know,” Leia replied, shaking her head. “I have always believed that hope is like the sun; if you only believe in it when you can see it, you’ll never make it through the night. Perhaps, sometimes we need to make our own sunlight. Would you help me to write some letters today?”

Rey fetched the parchment and ink, and the two wrote to the lady’s many allies, great peers of the realm, former Parliament members, and eminences from overseas, to advance her latest political project—and perhaps to invite other people back into Ben’s life, to fill Aldera Hall with music and laughter and dancing, to perhaps end Benjamin Solo’s isolation, and chase away the memories clinging to corners and hiding in the darkness like a thick layer of dust.

A few days passed, and the awaited reply letters did not arrive as expected.

It was not long thereafter that Rey heard the strange laughter in the night once more. This night, it was not just the eerie peal of laughter, but the sound of fingers, and fingernails, brushing against the walls, trailing down the hallway leading to Ben Solo’s chambers.

A door opened. A door closed.

The shadow and the laughter disappeared. Rey’s heart was beating fast; all her senses were on alert. There was a darkness in the air, in the very heart of the place she so longed to call home, a darkness that fought to penetrate Lady Organa’s earnest, steadfast light. It sought to destroy a young man who sought to serve his country, learn the strategy of warfare, and returned home haunted by the blood he spilled in pursuit of that service.

As if called by someone, or something, Rey grabbed her heavy robe and a candle and quietly crept out of her room.

The heavy darkness was not a figment of her imagination, nor was it a trick of the light cast by the moon and the candles in the latest hours of the night; smoke emanated from Ben Solo’s chamber.

Moving as quickly as she could, she hurried to the door and thrust it open.

Despite flame traveling up his bed from the heavy curtains, the chamber’s only occupant remained sound asleep; in the moon and candle light he looked peaceful and even younger than his nearly thirty years.

“Wake up!” Rey cried, attempting to shake him awake. He merely murmured and turned; the smoke had stupefied him.

It was by the grace of God, perhaps, that she looked up from Ben Solo’s prone form to his bedside table, where his own water pitcher sat. Grabbing it, she doused his bed curtains as best she could, and grabbed a nearby blanket to attempt to smother the rest before running back to her own room and grabbing her water jug. Returning to Ben’s chamber, she dumped the contents over him and his bed, by God’s aid, succeeded in extinguishing the flames.

Being drenched suddenly in water, along with the sounds of the commotion, finally awakened Ben Solo from his stupor.

His arms flailed as if reaching for an invisible, nonexistent sword or musket as he sat up in bed and flung his blankets from him.

“What happened? Rey?” he asked, looking about frantically.

“Your curtains were on fire, sir, and I was afraid you’d never awaken,” she replied. “Somebody has plotted something; you cannot too soon find out who and what it is.”

He shook his head, droplets falling from his hair, and grabbed his dressing gown and another blanket. He then stepped toward Rey, reaching for her hands to ascertain if she had been burned.

“Rey, are you alright? You saved my life.”

She nodded, shaking from fear and adrenaline.

“I’ll be back in just a moment. I must go to check on something. Will you remain here? Are you certain that you are unharmed?”

“Yes, thank you. I shall remain here until you return.”

“Thank you, Rey. Do not bother waking my mother. I will return shortly.”

While Lord Solo was gone, seeking to make herself useful, Rey refilled his water pitcher from the basin in his water closet and put the singed and smoke scented blanket out to be washed. She examined the room closely, trying to discern any evidence which would give rise to the assailant’s identity. There was no candlestick holder to be found, but melted wax had pooled on the floor beneath the heavy draperies. She sat down upon the unharmed bed, and considered all that she had seen and heard that night.

The servants and Lady Organa slept in separate quarters, on the other floors of the house. In this wing, only herself, Lord Solo, and Lord Snoke kept their quarters. There was no reason to suspect Lady Organa would want to harm her only son; it was her deepest desire that his relationship with her brother, his uncle, be repaired, and that he devote himself to the family estate and accept his position as heir. Nor did Rey believe there would be a motive for any of the servants to want to kill their master; she knew them to be hard working, devoted, and well paid for their labors and circumspection.

She was certain that Snoke had tried to kill his young companion because he would not completely sever his relationship with his mother. She would not dare voice her suspicion aloud with everything in such a state, nor break her promise to Lord Solo.

True to his word, Ben Solo soon returned.

“I have found it all out, it is just as I thought. Have you heard queer laughter late at night before, Rey?”

“Yes, in fact I have. Lord Solo—” she began, but he cut her off, taking her hands in his own.

“You just saved my life, for which I will never even begin to comprehend repayment. Please, call me Ben.”

She looked up at him, startled by his earnest entreaty and plain words, and found herself captivated by his dark eyes. They were so like his mother’s eyes, and yet quite unlike, for she knew them most frequently to be haunted and encircled by deep shadows, like bruises marring his elegant face, the result of far too many sleepless nights and migraines preying upon his mind.

She nodded, swallowed, and continued. “Thank you, Ben. I could do no less. I must confess that I do not believe either of us will have a deep, peaceful rest tonight.”

“No indeed,” he replied, turning away from her and releasing her hands. He rubbed at his temples and pushed his sable hair away from his face.

“Please do try to get some rest tonight, however,” he said, turning back to face Rey once more. “I will escort you back to your chamber. Please do also tell no one what you saw tonight.”

She nodded once more, and took his proffered hand as he walked her to her chamber door.

After bidding her good night, he bowed and kissed her hand, then headed not back to his own quarters, but to the library Rey so loved.

Retiring once more, Rey could not help but wonder why her heart was still racing, why she could still feel the press of Ben Solo’s lips on her hand like a brand that had inflamed her entire body, her very soul.

She slept, dreaming of fire and entangled sheets and Ben Solo’s plush lips and raven hair.

The next morning, upon entering the library to select a new book to read with Lady Organa, she found Ben asleep upon the sofa.

She was thankful that she did not gasp or make a sound when she saw him, for his deep, even breathing indicated he was finally getting the restful sleep he so desperately needed. She tiptoed around the sofa, grabbed a few books at random, and crept back out of the library as quickly as possible.

Over breakfast, he did not mention seeing her that morning, much to her relief, nor did he mention the terrifying incident of the night prior. He did, however, tell her that he was to be away for about a week; business in London called his attention, and he thought some time away might do his constitution some good. Besides, it would be difficult to head south once the winter set in.

Rey was pleased that he would be safe from Snoke’s pernicious influence for at least a week, and that he seemed eager to transact the duties expected of him as a landed gentleman, but she could not help but admit to herself she would miss him terribly.

…

A week’s time had passed, and Rey not only kept her promise to Ben to not speak of what transpired to his mother, she also kept her promise to herself not to dwell on her budding sentiments for him.

There were no further incidents in the nighttime, and Rey did not see Lord Snoke at all during that period, for which she prayed and thanked whichever deities were smiling down upon her.

When Ben did finally return, he seemed quite well; some color had returned to his cheeks, and the shadows under his eyes were not nearly as pronounced. Lady Organa too was relieved to see him well again, and the three enjoyed a lively evening meal with a lovely French wine.

That night, after all had retired to bed, the horrors began again.

Rey was started out of a deep and dreamless sleep by a quiet knock on her door. She opened it to admit Ben Solo, holding a cloth to his face.

“Forgive me, Rey, but I could use your help once more. Are you afraid of blood?” he asked, taking her hand as she led him to her reading chair.

“No, Mr. Solo. I mean, Ben,” she added hurriedly, concerned for his safety and health. “I am not afraid of blood.”

“Will you help me?” he asked, removing the cloth from his face to show a gash leading up his cheek.

“Of course,” she replied, grabbing fresh cloths from her water closet. She brought them to him, urging him to press them to the open wound while she rinsed the bloody linens he removed. He sat in her reading chair, looking lost and forlorn, like a young boy who had lost his prized puppy rather than a distinguished former soldier and a member of the gentry.

“Will you go downstairs, into the quarters near the kitchen? There should be some herbs and potions down there. I can manage while you’re gone,” he asked when she stepped back into her chamber with the rinsed fabric.

“I can make a poultice,” she offered, nodding.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly. She took up a candle and was about to leave when he added, “If you see my mother or Snoke, say nothing.”

She turned back to look at him; his face was in his hands, blood starting to come through the new cloth. His dark hair caught the candlelight as always, searing her heart once more.

Rey hurried downstairs to find what she needed, and saw no one. It seemed that her lady and the evil lord were deep in sleep. She dared not ask how Ben was injured so; though her thoughts did not linger upon it, her heart knew the answer already.

She returned to her chamber to minister to Ben, and after about a quarter of an hour or so, the bleeding seemed to cease, and he suggested a walk outside for some fresh air, not long before the sun was due to rise.

After yet another night that seemed bleaker than most, and another spate of violence determined to end the life of one for whom she so cared, Rey was eager to step out from the house’s suddenly pressing confinement and into the orchard. It was chilly, but she knew the fresh air would do her well, and she was heartened to take a turn about the garden on Ben’s arm.

“Rey, do you believe it possible that one may return from utter darkness, that even the worst sins can be forgiven?”

“I do,” she replied. “If one’s heart is true, if mankind’s goodness still resides within, and forgiveness is sought, who are we to judge what only God may?”

“Would your answer remain the same if I told you a story of a young man, who made a capital error in a foreign country, turning his life from its intended course, and then continued to follow the wrong path through a dark wood? Even when he held the hopes of redeeming himself in his deepest heart, fighting against his own unsavory nature and wishing to enjoin himself in matrimony with an honest and moral wife, would he be justified in overleaping an obstacle of custom?”

“Such a man must look to God for his salvation, not to another person.” At this, he took her hand, and pressed it gently.

“I am grateful, Rey,” he replied, “for this and all the kindness you have done me.”

“You are not alone,” she answered, surprising herself with the firmness of her conviction. Her emotions were in a flutter, her heart beating rapidly from the revelations with which she had been presented.

“Neither are you,” he replied, and with that, he kissed her hand once more.

He took his leave of her as Dawn stretched her rosy fingers over their garden corner, the cocks beginning to crow and the sounds of the earth awakening from their deep slumber to begin another day.

After the episode of the previous night, she had to admit to herself that she had developed feelings for Ben Solo, for which she scolded and castigated herself. After all, she was no one, born to nobody in the western reaches of the country; he was the heir to a great estate, and son to a noble family dating back to the Conqueror.

She resolved quite firmly to put her feelings aside, though she felt her racing heart betrayed her when he once more took her hand and kissed it before bidding her adieu.

…

After her sleepless night and dawn sojourn through the gardens with Ben, the day passed strangely for Rey. She felt disembodied, as if she were the rumored ghost said to be haunting the Hall. She knew, however, that there existed no ghost, but rather a cruel and evil man who meted out violent punishment upon his apprentice.

Rey did not see Snoke that day, but rather shadows in every corner, seemingly to match those under Ben’s and her eyes.

She could hardly concentrate on prayers, reading, or conversing with Lady Organa; her mind seemed clouded by a mist, like the dew rising off the moors in the summertime, or a fog indicating a heavy storm to follow.

That night, she retired early, taking care to bolt her door shut and locked. She did not dare keep a candle lit by her bedside, using only the moonlight to make ready for bed.

She fell into a light sleep, only to be awakened by a scratching along the hallway passage. A heavy foot accompanied it; she recognized that loud gait. The temperature in Rey’s chamber seemed to drop while her heart rate rose precipitously.

It was Snoke, as her heart had expected and feared all along.

She reminded herself she had firmly locked and bolted her door that night and though he was strong, a former military leader, he could not walk through walls.

Her doorknob rattled as he tried it. Rey scarcely breathed, praying earnestly that he would turn back down the hallway and return to his own quarters, sparing the rest of the household from whatever horrors he had planned.

Rey’s prayers were not to be answered that night, as the oppressive presence at her chamber door continued down the passageway to Ben Solo’s quarters.

She flung off her blankets, grabbed her dressing gown, and unbolted her door. Her entrance into the hallway served as a distraction from the dark lord’s nefarious purpose, as she had planned, but beyond that, she had not thought ahead to what she—or he—would do.

No ghost or malicious spirit come back from the dead greeted her, but Snoke did.

His eyes were particularly cruel and vicious, menacing in the moonlight. Rey had not kept a candle lit for her own protection and peace of mind that night; now she lamented it, for she could have flung it at the evil entity now present before her. She had no weapons, no manner of defending herself beyond her own wits and courage, those she had to rely upon when facing Mr. Plutt’s rage.

Perhaps the situation was not so different, she tried to tell herself, but Mr. Plutt had never wanted Rey or any of her fellow orphans dead, nor had he ever tried to set one of his apprentices on fire in their own bed.

“You,” he said, pointing a long, white finger at her. “Pathetic child. I cannot be betrayed. I cannot be beaten. I know his mind. I know his every intent.”

Rey did not allow his condescension or her terror to sway her resolve, or weaken her spirit. She did not hold his gaze, but rather cast about her for anything she could use as protection.

An ancient suit of armor, one to which she had never paid much mind, stood sentry in the hallway.

As he approached her, she pulled the old sword from the knight’s scabbard. It was heavy, but it felt right in her hands. She stood her ground as she had seen Ben do with his own preferred sword.

It was then that two momentous occurrences happened simultaneously, which Rey would never be able to explain save for the appearance of an avenging guardian angel, or once more the grace of God.

She realized that Snoke too bore a heavy sword by his side, and as she realized his intent, it was then that Ben Solo emerged from his chamber, putting himself between Rey and Snoke.

He looked up at Snoke, then back to Rey, and she wordlessly handed him the sword she had claimed.

The deadliest dance Rey had ever, or would ever, witness ensued. She was uncertain as to how the clanging of metal on metal did not awaken every servant, even though their quarters were on the floor below.

“You have too much of your father’s heart in you, young Solo. When I found you, I saw what all masters live to see: raw, untamed power and beyond that, something truly special. The potential of your bloodline. But now, you are nothing, weakened by an orphan girl,” Snoke taunted, striking out once more.

He missed Ben’s blade, below his own, and while Snoke’s blade caught the air, sounding like a ghost moving through the hallway, Ben’s blade struck true, ending his master’s life.

Rey rushed to him, to once more find blood covering them both.

It seemed as if a spell had been broken, for it was then that the sun rose, bringing with it servants and Lady Organa herself at the top of the stairs to witness the gruesome tableau.

Rey soon found herself returned to her chamber, a heavy sleeping draught prepared for her and Ben both.

…

Ben spent a few days convalescing and recovering from his wounds, then requested that Rey meet him in the garden for tea one bright spring morning.

To Rey, gratitude, and many associations, all pleasurable and genial, made his face the object she best liked to see; his presence in a room was more cheering than the brightest fire on a cold Yorkshire night. However, she feared that in the aftermath of his precipitous duel with his master, he would blame her for its cause or change his mind about continuing her employment as his mother’s companion.

“Rey,” he greeted her, but before he could continue, she forced herself to speak.

“I will find another position,” she began. “I entirely understand if you no longer desire my presence here at Aldera Hall.”

He shook his head. “Nothing could be further from the truth; I desire quite the opposite, in fact. Unless you prefer to leave,” he hurriedly added. “I can understand if you came to despise and fear this place, and feel trapped in its net.”

“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will,” she replied, searching his face for the blunt, tactless honesty she had always known him to possess.

“And your will shall decide your destiny,” he said, reaching for her hand. “That is why I myself will entirely understand if you do not wish to do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage. I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions. I ask you to pass through life at my side—to be my second self, and best earthly companion.”

She smiled, entwining her fingers with his own.

“I will marry you, Ben. But you must ask your mother for her forgiveness, and I must ask her blessing.”

The pair could have passed several hours or even days amongst themselves sitting in the garden, holding hands, but returned to the great manor house to attend their duties and start their life together anew.

Her heart full, Rey presented herself to Lady Organa, her eyes twinkling in the sunlight.

“My lady,” she began, sitting down on the sofa next to her. “Your son has had an unfortunate past, and made many mistakes. I told him that he must look to God for his own salvation and redemption, not to another person. He allowed a cruel master to transform his heart and mind against you and against your teachings, morals, and bloodline. He must ask and pray for forgiveness. And yet, while I breathe and think I must love him.”

The wise older lady, so like a mother to Rey, smiled and took her hands in her own. “I give you my blessing. It would be my greatest joy to have you as my daughter.”

Rey’s heart brimmed over with joy; her countenance glowed in the spring sunlight and with her greatest happiness.

Reader, she married him.

#reylo #reylo fanfiction anthology #rffa writers #amid secrets and monsters #jane eyre au #jane eyre #my writing #fan fiction

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iconiceyesleedswestyorkshir-blog · 5 years

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Issues To Contemplate Whiling Pondering For Graphic Design Outsource

Boutique operation providing customized focused graphic designs for all print media. As has been discussed above, the viewers in the Twitter verse is functioning inside a burgeoning and expanding social media entity which supplies them anonymity or exposure, which in both case, they maintain the ability of affecting data dissemination to another level that they were by no means capable of earlier than the coming of the Twitter. The reducing down of timber, the toxic materials of companies and the garbage are elements of the incident and remember these are all ending product of technology that individuals used and invented, by simply misusing expertise society change into ruined. Her spectacular physique of design formed the notion and application of graphic design in many ways, significantly her strategy of treating type as a visible picture in her work for the New York City's Public Theater (pictured above) which continues to have a lasting impression on trendy design. Some other methods I will write about intermittently below simply to maintain the narrative zeroed in on the fact that The ANC should start to tell the individuals the reality; they must have self criticism of the Mao Tse Tung mode, and combine that with the criticism that's being laid on their doorsteps by their very own individuals who have elected them into energy. This does not mean we are going to routinely return to the Homo-Sapien instances and age, but we shall have to add our fashionable affect in at the moment's civilization of the techno age, however shouldn't be afraid to say that we are African, and contribute our additions to the development of man. Quickly, we method the final phase of the extension of man - the technological simulation of consciousness, when the artistic process of realizing will probably be collectively and corporately prolonged to the whole of human society, a lot a shave already extended our senses and our nerves by various media. Yet, on the similar time, we see spiraling addition, trivia, and numbness; elevated surveillance from governments, and from companies, a very unnerving attempt to harvest the individual's stream of consciousness, as concretized by its search engine historical past. Andre Gunde Frank opens our minds as to how we are manipulated and splurged helter-skelter so's not to be united, because we now have to start to grasp the social sciences and the natural sciences- were used totally to protect the interest of the US. It is from these disciplines that the USA is controlling South Africa and the World. Many still want the affirmation of their white contemporaries to be writers or whatever… We've got some of these White authorities who dictate to our African elite, and the African bourgeoisie(and they are referred to as so today in south Africa), are too keen and able to please and adjust to the dictates of their Masters-and be accepted as being the identical as the Grasp-even if they'll remain the underdogs. There are all kinds of activities in the African neighborhood that contribute to liquor, licentious conduct, and community 'get-togethers' like the After Tears funeral Events", Stokvels, Shebeens or Taverns, wherein consumption of liquor is large,and those make up for lewd and obscene habits; that, if we're talking about sexual acts and the inconsistent use of condom, in all population groups, we should then additionally have a look at the behavior of people who find themselves inebriated and the sexual acts following their unprotected sex in a drunken stupor. The individuals, leaders and protectors of the folks of African descent are the one which can be closely concerned of their oppression, depression, repression, poverty, illnesses, ignorance, unemployment, making for them electricity and water exorbitantly priced, meals unaffordable, overcrowding and poor housing amenities; additionally, one sees the hospitals overwhelmed and can't even give drugs nor adequately treat their patients; assassination and and serious intimidation of what are known as the 'enemy' or anarchists or "Mdlwembe", pick your alternative, the end outcomes is death and or murder. We also read from Neil Postman that Media Ecology is wanting into the matter of how media of communication have an effect on human perception, understanding, feeling, and worth; and how our interaction with media facilitates or impedes our chances of survival. Comical caricatures of trying to present Western cultures, languages, mores and beliefs-absent and nothing of our personal indigenous cultures, languages, values and intones:"The lasting problem that we face is the absence of information and understanding of African tradition. The problem that Why Africans don't make head-manner with their wrestle is that Africans, amongst their midst, have loads of these self-styled, self-pointed-revolutionary fakes and liberators-wanna-be's who supply nothing however distortion, no packages, unfavorable critiquing and lack in planning and real leadership talents and minds, and who preen their egos to a motley crew of ignorant followers, with out themselves(these self-styled leaders) encouraging their followers to go to the plenty, talk to the lots, arrange structures amongst and with the masses for their very own liberation, with the lots dictating and in charge of their future, not some banal and bare formulations of some these intellectual sitting nest to their computes or utilizing their telephones, in the consolation zones, imbibing the trappings of sick-gotten material wealth, and couching their rhetoric with pretend revolutionary-jabbawocky. Margolin explains that To make the contributions and struggles of black graphic designers in Chicago more seen, we need to tell the story of graphic design within the metropolis as a social historical past and never simply an aesthetic one.” (Margolin 5) This proves that, although only a few, there was minority designers producing good work in the subject. What the Intel group is anxious most about here, is that if the American public learns that they've been secretly mind fingerprinted by the National Safety Agency, it will show that the United States Federal Authorities is managed by a shadow authorities based mostly on a fascist dictatorship, which masquerades as a democratic republic. Graphic design offers each credibility and belief when it comes to that almighty CTA you are engaged on. Without an experienced graphic design firm your calls-to-action as well as your online targets hold on the precipice of mediocrity and failure. Subsequently, their small accumulation of capital and the earnings which they obtain from skilled providers throughout the African (or White) neighborhood make them seem wealthy in comparison the low economic status of nearly all of poor delusion of wealth is supported by the myth of African business. Fortunately, section 195 of the South African Constitution does direct the general public administration that, Folks's wants have to be responded to, and the general public have to be encouraged to participate in policy-making," and in accordance with this directive, the proposed Draft Online Regulation Coverage has been opened for public remark, which remains open till June 15. i need a graphic designer iconiceyes.co.uk Leeds, West Yorkshire like Right to Know have already been mobilizing in opposition to the proposal, and are amassing supporters for a petition and social media campaign, which EFF heartily endorses. Consequently, the (global) public sphere will grow to be extra complete by encompassing a wider spectrum of social collectivities and by reaching further right down to very low levels of society (e.g. the extent of tiny communities and insignificant voluntary associations). The situations of poverty, over-crowdedness, lack of police management and the prevalence of police corruption, breakdown of family mores and construction, basic social anomie and an enormous "Apartheid Hangover" which has been contributing to what Frantz Fanon called "Colonial Mental Disorders," excessive incidences of rape, crime and anarchy, all render completely different results and impacts on the African inhabitants. The White Paper which preceded the Telecommunications Act 6 also commented on the principles in regard to the interception of call visitors particularly, that the very proper of presidency to intercept telecommunications visitors should be stringently controlled; that the Interception and Monitoring Prohibition Act needs to be reviewed with a view to ensure ample safeguards are in place and that such a assessment should of necessity contain public debate and the participation of other Ministries, reminiscent of that of Safety and Security. Although website designer near me give us an image of how Africa makes use of social networking, it does not tell us concerning the segregated growth and entry of Africa and other so-referred to as Third and Second World International locations who haven't any wherewithal to be as superior and developed as their Western counterparts, elsewhere. When we start to learn and have a sense and more concrete data about our tradition, by trying it as it in it its whole wholesomeness(Holistically), we begin to grasp, see and recognize, and observe more similarities in dancing types, hand-clapping, voicing, circle-formations, and half moon patterns crisscrossing strains, snake-like, and choreographic backwards and forwards movements in-sync and patterned exactly, with a flurry and changing shapes, and varieties on and of their similar vivid and energetic colours, Polyrhythmic syncopated sounds, explosiveness, and rhythm of all of the eleven(eleven) African people as one unified and diverse, variegated and one frequent national entity. Instead, the users and consumers of data all sorts of information are low logged into these social media, and what makes them common, it is their capability to allow peculiar of us to partake or control the flow of information with out having 'gate-keepers' censoring or adjusting what is data or what is reported. But Gwala's colleagues have little doubt about what happened that evening: the assassination of a conspicuous and vocal thorn within the facet of native authorities and officers from the ruling African National Congress as he fought corruption within the allocation of social housing. In the days of social media and the Web, these have been delivered to bear and in the front of society within the US. What this means is that, the numerous races and different communities, races, and so forth, snapped when the Grand juries, in numerous states of the United States discovered the cops not guilt or responsible for the homicide of Garner and brown, and these had been captured on video. The eyes of the world are actually more targeted on the offers that governments and enterprise did collectively, on the methods in which public procurement contracts have been determined and who benefitted on those actions by which individuals in power that have hitherto not been sufficiently topic to public scrutiny and oversight-have their actions laid naked within the viral stream.

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architectnews · 2 years

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Gowland House, Kingston upon Hull

Gowland House, Kirk Ella, East Riding of Yorkshire Luxury Real Estate, English Architecture, Kingston upon Hull Home and Pool

Gowland House in Kingston upon Hull

8 Mar 2022

Design: ID Architecture

Location: Kirk Ella, Kingston upon Hull, East Riding of Yorkshire, northeast England, UK

Photos © Andy Haslam

Gowland House, Hull

Gowland House is situated to the south-east of the Kirk Ella Conservation area, a large and desirable suburb situated in East Riding of Yorkshire, on the western outskirts of Kingston upon Hull, roughly 5 miles west of the city centre. Kirk Ella incorporates three major periods of architecture, 18thcentury Georgian, 19th century Gothic Revival, and 20th century Inter-war derivatives of Mock Tudor and Arts and Craft Movement, which creates variety and individuality throughout the settlement.

A varied selection of materials can be seen throughout the village, including rough textured and modern smooth brick, alongside elements of stone and render. This mixture of scale, era, and material results in a settlement with a diverse and interesting architectural character.

Mr and Mrs Gowland approached ID Architecture in March 2017, wishing to replace the existing small bungalow on the site with a new light-and-spacious, contemporary dwelling. Through detailed discussions the brief was defined for the design of their home, with a key requirement being an ability to accommodate all their children and grandchildren during holidays and family events.

Although the dwelling was to have two-storeys to incorporate the necessary sleeping accommodation, accessibility and lifetime accommodation were to be key considerations throughout, with open-plan living, spacious circulation, level access, a ground-floor bedroom suite, and low-maintenance gardens, to ensure the house could be lived-in comfortably, and without compromise, using only the ground floor level. Interestingly, Mr Gowland also required the property to be arranged around a central courtyard in a ’U’ shape plan, reminiscent of a hotel he had once visited.

ID Architecture responded to this brief with a plan arrangement designed to hug the southern extent of the plot, continuing the existing pattern and orientation of neighbouring development on that side. The land slopes gently from east-to-west so the ground floor is set at the lower level, with the domestic area of the property designed to cut into the slope resulting in a low-lying structure having minimal impact on the surrounding neighbouring residences. The entrance and garage are configured in an L-shape arrangement around the parking area whilst new tree planting was introduced along the full extent of the driveway to form a direct relationship with the street scene.

On entering through the impressive, sheltered entrance, the elegantly detailed open-tread walnut wrapped stair and flush storage wall to the opposite side guide the view through a fully glazed wall over the external courtyard and swimming pool, toward the backdrop of magnificent trees. The vaulted ceiling and the gallery landing above further enhance the feeling of spaciousness and light. From here the open plan spaces, which are used daily, are located to the south with the family kitchen orientated to socially connect with the living area and to enjoy views to the outdoor dining area below the timber pergola.

All ancillary spaces including pantry, downstairs shower and home gym are positioned to the east, where outlook and outside connection is less important. The utility and boot room provide direct access from the landscaped garden with a generous double garage and separate internal store/plant room. Sufficient internal storage space has been provided for housing the infrastructure for the sustainable technologies, including Tesla battery wall, solar PV panels and air source heat pumps.

Although, at more than 600sqm floor area, Gowland House is large, the extensively glazed courtyard arrangement results in a home that feels at once connected and introspective. All the habitable spaces can be seen and easily accessed throughout the ground floor resulting in a spacious and accessible layout with the only separate spaces being the intentionally more intimate lounge and office.

At first floor the dwelling has a more conventional arrangement, with bedroom suites arranged off an L—shaped corridor providing long sightlines framed between extensive glazing and leading to the impressive galleried landing. The circulation is positioned to the east to minimise any overlooking of neighbouring gardens whilst bedrooms overlook the courtyard, and outdoor swimming pool. The pool was a later client requirement that was integrated into the design to provide a healthy and fun feature that can be used daily. It is located right at the heart of the property where it can be seen from multiple locations ensuring maximum safety when used by people of all ages and abilities. The pool itself was very carefully and methodically detailed to suit the architecture and chosen floor tiles that extend from it throughout the property.

The established conifer trees that line the boundary to the south are retained to maintain privacy to the adjacent neighbouring property, whilst the arrangement of the dwelling has been carefully considered to provide a prominent principal elevation that fronts the street scene set back within its newly landscaped plot with single storey elements to the rear. This stepped approach ultimately creates a west facing private courtyard/garden enjoying direct sunlight throughout the day.

The low-pitched profile of the roof is considered to minimise the mass of this large house when viewed from surrounding properties, and from the roadside. This is complemented with a simple material palette consisting of grey brick, weathering Siberian larch, and standing seam aluminium, which is taken up and over the roofs, and was chosen as a cost-effective alternative to zinc. All of this results in a dwelling that introduces a new and contemporary architectural style and adds to the interesting and varied character already found in Kirk Ella.

The planning process was extremely positive, and thanks to open minded and trusted clients the property was designed and approved through a delegated decision within twelve months of the initial on-site consultation.

Gowland House in Kingston upon Hull, England – Building Information

Architect: ID Architecture – https://idarchitecture.co.uk/ Project size: 1000 sqm Site size: 2365 sqm Completion date: 2021 Building levels: 2

Energy Accessor: EB7 Local Authority Building Control: NELC LABC Principal Contractor: S Voase Builders Structural and Civil Engineer: G2 Structural Mechanical and Electrical Contractor: MEC Humber Ltd Window Supplier: Oakmont Glazing Kitchen Designer/Supplier: Samuel Neal Kitchens Swimming Pool: Asher Swimpool Bathrooms/En-suite: Porcelanosa

Photos © Andy Haslam

Gowland House, Kingston upon Hull images / information from Dexter Moren Associates

Location: Kingston upon Hull, East Riding of Yorkshire, England, UK

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Comments / photos for the Gowland House, Kingston upon Hull Architecture design by ID Architecture page welcome

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Netflix’s Behind Her Eyes Cast: Where Have You Seen Tom Bateman and Eve Hewson Before?

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Netflix psychological thriller Behind Her Eyes, adapted from Sarah Pinborough’s hit novel of the same name, sets its cast an unenviably tough task (and not just because almost everyone’s having to do a regional accent). Through subtleties and shifts in their performances, Eve Hewson, Tom Bateman, Simona Brown and Robert Aramayo need to keep the audience invested while keeping us guessing. What is it we’re watching? Is this six-part series the tale of Adele and David’s brittle marriage and the secrets that bind them? Or the story of single-mother Louise (Simona Brown) getting in over her head with this glamorous new couple? Could it be something else entirely?

While you’re asking yourself those questions, you’ll likely be asking another: where have I seen that guy before? While we can’t help with the former and stay spoiler-free, we can answer that one…

Eve Hewson as Adele

Dublin-born actor Eve Hewson most recently played lead Anna Weatherall in BBC-Starz period fantasy The Luminaries, an adaptation of Eleanor Catton’s 2013 Booker Prize-winning novel set against the backdrop of the west coast New Zealand Gold Rush. Before that, her major TV role was opposite Clive Owen, playing Nurse Lucy Elkins in Steven Soderbergh’s Cinemax period drama The Knick set in an experimental hospital in 1900.

The 29-year-old has also appeared in several high-profile films, playing the Marian to Taron Egerton’s Robin in the 2018 Robin Hood. She’s starred alongside Ethan Hawke in Tesla, opposite Sean Penn in Paulo Sorrentino’s This Must Be The Place, and with Tom Hanks in Steven Spielberg’s Bridge of Spies. Born Memphis Eve Sunny Day Hewson, she’s the daughter of Irish activist Ali Hewson and musician Paul Hewson aka U2’s Bono.

Tom Bateman as David

English actor Tom Bateman’s biggest film role so far is as the roguish but charming Bouc in Kenneth Branagh’s 2017 Murder on the Orient Express, a part he has returned to for Branagh’s second Agatha Christie feature adaptation Death on the Nile, due for release later this year. Bouc is a fond old “ami” of detective Hercule Poirot who works as the on-board director for his wealthy uncle’s train company. He starred opposite Liam Neeson in 2019 action-thriller Cold Pursuit and alongside Goldie Hawn and Amy Schumer in 2017 comedy Snatched.

TV-wise, you may have seen him as the lead John Beecham in ITV romantic period drama Beecham House, or as Rawdon Crawley, the drinking and duelling husband of Becky Sharp in ITV’s period comedy adaptation Vanity Fair. Bateman also played sleazy tabloid journalist Danny Hillier in Sky Atlantic’s The Tunnel and Guiliano Medici opposite Tom Riley’s Leonardo in period fantasy Da Vinci’s Demons. For ITV, he played Robert Jekyll in short-lived family fantasy Jekyll & Hyde. Among several stage roles, he acted alongside David Tennant and Catherine Tate in a 2011 production of Much Ado About Nothing.

Simona Brown as Louise

Prior to Behind Her Eyes, 26-year-old English actor Simona Brown’s most prominent roles were as operative Rachel in 1970s-set BBC One spy thriller The Little Drummer Girl, alongside Florence Pugh, Michael Shannon and Alexander Skarsgard; and as the troubled Tess in Channel 4’s virtual-reality drama Kiss Me First. She also appeared in US 2016 psychological thriller series Guilt and opposite Fionn Whitehead in ITV paranormal thriller HIM. Brown had a role in the 2016 remake of acclaimed slave drama Roots, and played the Grace in hit UK thriller The Night Manager – another John Le Carré adaptation for BBC One.

New on Netflix UK February 2021

By Louisa Mellor

Firefly Lane and the Problem with Aging up and Down

By Rosie Fletcher

In 2015, Brown played schoolgirl Gaia in BBC One’s adaptation of JK Rowling’s The Casual Vacancy, and starred opposite Georgina Campbell in acclaimed BBC Three drama Murdered by my Boyfriend. Credited as Chontelle Brown, she also appeared in a two-part story on Russell T Davies’ CBBC sci-fi fantasy Wizards Vs Aliens.

Robert Aramayo as Rob

Yorkshire-born 28-year-old actor Robert Aramayo will be most recognisable to Game of Thrones fans as the young Ned Stark in the HBO show’s seasons six and seven flashbacks. He played the younger version of Sean Bean’s character in the Tower of Joy scenes that held the clue to the real identity of bastard Jon Snow. He memorably played serial killer Elmer Wayne Henley Jr in the second season of Netflix’s Mindhunter, and Texan character Turk in Rob Ford’s violent thriller feature film Nocturnal Animals.

Aramayo is also linked to another high-profile fantasy TV show, having been cast as the lead in Amazon’s pricy new The Lord of the Rings TV series, replacing Will Poulter who’d left the production due to scheduling conflicts. Another big role for Aramayo sees him co-starring with Ralph Fiennes, Stanley Tucci, Aaron Taylor-Johnson, Gemma Arterton and more in Matthew Vaughan’s 2021 feature prequel The King’s Man.

Tyler Howitt as Adam

You may recognise Louise’s seven-year-old son Adam, played by Tyler Howitt, from the first season of BBC-HBO fantasy His Dark Materials. Howitt played Billy Costa, a young Gyptian boy kidnapped by ‘The Gobblers’ and taken to a remote research facility in the far north, where he was cruelly experimented on.

Georgie Glen as Sue

Glen plays Sue, who works with Louise and David as a psychiatrist’s receptionist and secretary. With screen credits going back to the 1980s, the Scottish actor has had too many roles to list here. Most recently, you’ll have seen her as GP surgery receptionist Miss Higgins on BBC One’s Call The Midwife, and as Lady Fermoy in season four of The Crown. She’s also lately appeared in Hetty Feather, Damned, Sally4Ever and The Victim.

Eva Birthistle as Marianne

Though uncredited on IMDb at the time of writing, Irish actor Eva Birthistle plays Brighton café owner Marianne in Behind Her Eyes. She’s already had a long and varied career on screen, with stand-out roles as nun-turned-warrior-turned-Abbess Hild on Netflix’s action period adaptation The Last Kingdom, and even more recently as Vanessa on Netflix’s Fate: The Winx Saga young adult fantasy series.

Aston McAuley as Anthony

McAuley plays addict and psychiatric patient Anthony Hawkins in Behind Her Eyes, and has previously appeared in ITV crime drama Endeavour, 2019 Elton John biopic Rocketman, Armando Iannucci’s The Personal History of David Copperfield and BBC Three polyamory relationship drama Trigonometry.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Behind Her Eyes is out on Netflix on Wednesday the 17th of February.

The post Netflix’s Behind Her Eyes Cast: Where Have You Seen Tom Bateman and Eve Hewson Before? appeared first on Den of Geek.

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jeremystrele · 4 years

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A Spectacular Northern Rivers Home Built By The Whole Family!

Homes

by Lucy Feagins, Editor

Hannah Fewson, with her parents Jane and David Fewson, and Hannah’s daughter Purslane (Pursy) with bull terrier Len and blue heeler Bean. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

Artwork on the right made by a group of Namibian women using potato stamps. Artwork on right by Jane and David’s other daughter Holly Fewson back in high school. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

A mix of jasmine and bleeding heart vine comes in the upstairs windows, and fills the whole house with their heady scent in spring. Also in this room are the few pieces Jane shipped over from her family farm house in Yorkshire: an old oak chest, small turned rocking chair, and a timber inlay artwork inherited from her great aunty Anne on the wall. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

A long view of the ‘winter room’ running the width of the house painted in Dulux Natural White. Landscape on the end wall by Shaz Rhodes. All furniture is from the tip shop, road side, inherited or thrifted. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

Hannah breastfeeding and chatting with Jane. The two large picture frames windows at either end are called the ‘snorkels’ by the family, and you can sit in the window frames and watch storms come in. The two antique arm chairs were collected from hard rubbish and reupholstered. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

View from the main bedroom into the winter room. Antique chais collected from hard rubbish and reupholstered. P Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

View down the side hall into the guest bedroom and mini study desk. Central Desert carved snake above door. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

Guest bedroom with a door into the walk-in robe. David built the bed from structural laminated veneer lumber left over from the stairs. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

Main bedroom en suite with bath, antique French plant pot, Moroccan rug, and two old chairs for chatting! Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

Another view of the guest bedroom. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

Main bedroom with view into en suite. David made this bed from salvaged timber from the build, and eucalyptus sticks from the property. Jumbled mix of second hand furniture, rugs and cushions. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

Downstairs view of the office. Antique ‘carpet chair.’ Copper plumbing pipe on the staircase balustrade. Tiny drink table made by Hannah from a stump and sticks. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

From the top of the stairwell, with spears from the Central Desert on the right. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

The living room. Art deco side lamp on the far right, and an old dentist’s floor lamp from the same era. Reupholstered road side rescued sofas. Mid-century Danish leather armchair. Old English tapestry above the fireplace. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

Close up of the fireplace David bricked up. Old English tapestry above. Charcoal hand by Hannah. Large slab of limestone as the hearth from a local friend’s farm. Old English tapestry stool next to sofa. Detail of the wall light shrouds David had laser cut from ply. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

The central pillar in the downstairs room sort of divides the space into office, dining, living, kitchen areas. ‘We call it the ‘aorta’ as we had to put it in to run all the plumbing and electrics from upstairs!’ says Hannah. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

All kitchen cabinetry made by a local friend from salvaged timber. Sliding window above cooktop acts as a rangehood. The floor is the original concrete slab of the house/the old floor of the garage downstairs. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

The dining table was a former macadamia sorting table left in the shed when the property was bought! David made the top for it from timbers salvaged from old roof of the house. Hippeastrums from Hannah’s mother in law’s garden in a fish bowl on the table. Antique glass light shades bought off eBay. The huge Persian rug was found sodden outside a rug shop and bought for half price. ‘They left it in the rain and couldn’t move it – it was so heavy once it got wet!’ Hannah says. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

The Paddock Hall guest house Airbnb built and run by the family on the same property. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

David in his everyday work attire in the potting shed. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

Paddock Hall’s claw foot bath on the verandah. Photo – Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

Hannah, Jane and Pursy on the lawn, in front of the sliding kitchen window, (for passing tea and toast through!). The family eat breakfast at the antique French wrought iron table. Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

The impressive home exterior. Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

View from the pool to the barbecue area. The golden cypress cladding is morphing and ‘greying off’ in the weather, as it is untreated. Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

The pool! ‘Perfect as it’s deciduous, so provides shade in summer and lets the warmth in in winter,’ says Hannah. Jessie Prince for The Design Files. Styling – Louella Boitel-Gill

In 2014, Jane and David Fewson drove around Australia in an old converted fire engine. It was on this trip that they fell in love with the Northern Rivers area of New South Wales, so much so that they decided to pack up their life in Fremantle and make the move to a small town located 30-minutes south-west of Byron Bay. They bought a large, rundown home on a 20-acre former macadamia farm that needed some serious work.

Jane and David’s daughter Hannah Fewson joined them shortly after, to help with the renovations. ‘Mum and Dad looked at many properties. This one’s location just felt right, and we liked that although there wasn’t a grand view, all of the 20-acres were usable and not a steep escarpment,’ says Hannah.

Seven years later, and Jane, David, Hannah, her fiancé James and their 18-month-old daughter Purslane are all living in the spectacular home they built together. On the same 20-acre block is a cosy Airbnb rental Paddock Hall, built a couple of years ago and managed by Hannah, as well as an old Queenslander that Hannah and James had trucked down from Brisbane. They plan to move into it after they’ve completed their own renovation.

Jane and David’s house was in a state of disrepair when purchasing, but has now been completely transformed by the family. David owns the post and beam barn carpentry company Brotherwood, and undertook leading the charge of the renovations himself.

It’s hard to believe this open, expansive home was once a was a large brick 1970s build with all the living upstairs, small hallways and pokey rooms. Downstairs was an enclosed drive-in garage with a roller door. Hannah explains just some of the extensive renovations they undertook: ‘We took the pitched roof off, brought the ceiling height up, and made a parapet around the new roof to give the external appearance of a flat roof. We clad the exterior upstairs with macrocarpa (or golden cypress) and rendered and painted the downstairs exterior. We polished the original concrete pad downstairs that became the floor for the living area, dining area and kitchen, and clad all the internal walls with lining boards.’

The whole configuration of the upstairs layout was changed, and the walls ripped out, to become four bedrooms, one ensuite and one bathroom.

Much of the family home has been made from found or upcycled materials. A local cabinet maker and friend built the kitchen out of found white beech, as well as all the internal doors and windows that were crafted from recycled timber. David built the dining room table out of timber from the original roof, and floorboards were discovered and polished after getting rid of the rotting orange (flea infested!) upstairs carpet!

Despite these significant changes, there are still a few footprints (literally) from the original owners. ‘Kenny’s [the previous owner’s] footprints are still in our polished concrete floors downstairs, as he poured the original pad and according to local lore, only owned one pair of shoes – the ones he was married in,’ says Hannah!

The family have filled the spaces with mostly second hand pieces they’ve inherited, thrifted, reupholstered, or bought off Gumtree and Facebook Marketplace. David also built some furniture items, including all the beds! A backdrop of crisp Dulux Lexicon Quarter white on the internal walls ties together this lovingly haphazard collection of pieces.

As well as the renovations currently underway on Hannah and James’ transported Queenslander (!), they group are also building another Airbnb on site, called One Oh Seven R. ‘It’s mid-century-esque underground concrete space, inspired by spaceships and the Thunderbirds. This will have a vegetated roof, a wall of massive steel, and glass sliding doors,’ says Hannah. We can’t WAIT to see how that turns out!

Find the Paddock Hall Airbnb here and keep up with One Oh Seven R’s progress here!

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3dsrendercom · 4 years

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"I am irrational and the work stops me going mad" says John Pawson in Dezeen's latest podcast

The latest episode of Dezeen's Face to Face podcast features architectural designer John Pawson, who recounts his brief spell as a Buddhist monk, how Calvin Klein changed his life and explains how minimalism helps calm his "untidy mind". Listen to the episode below or subscribe on Apple Podcasts, Spotify and Google Podcasts to catch the whole series. In the Face to Face series, Dezeen's founder and editor-in-chief Marcus Fairs sits down with leading architects and designers to discuss their lives.

Architectural designer John Pawson features on the latest episode of Dezeen's Face to Face podcast series. Photo is by Gilbert McCarragher This episode of Face to Face features architectural designer Pawson, who has become celebrated for his minimalist approach to architecture and design, which he says has helped him counter his "untidy and unruly" mind. "I feel more comfortable without the stuff around or without the clutter. It allows me to think," he said in the interview. " very untidy mind, very unruly and, and that's why, you know, it's helped me a lot to have these sorts of spaces." World tour Pawson grew up in Halifax in West Yorkshire, England, where his family owned a textile business, but he moved to London to attend Eton, where he admits to not having been a great student. "I just couldn't knuckle down to studying," he said. "I just couldn't cope with the subjects."

Pawson's home in the Cotswolds, England. Photo is by Gilbert McCarragher After finishing school, instead of joining the family business, Pawson decided to embark on a world tour that took him to India; Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco during the hippie era; Sydney, where he made friends with actress and singer Liza Minelli; and finally Japan, where he tried to become a Zen Buddhist monk. "I'd seen a documentary about Aichi," he said. "It was a really beautiful film about the Zen Buddhist monks and I thought, well, this is for me. I lasted four hours." Meeting Calvin Klein After giving up on the Buddhist monastery, he travelled to Tokyo where he worked for Shiro Kuramata, one of the most important designers of the 20th century, who convinced him to apply to study architecture at the Architectural Association in London.

Pawson's Wooden Chapel in the Bavarian Forest. Photo is by Felix Friedmann Despite never finishing his architecture degree, Pawson attended the AA for three years between 1979 and 1981 and was taught by the likes of Zaha Hadid, Rem Koolhaas and Nigel Coates. "What I learned at the AA was something that I didn't think you could learn and that was to design," he said in the interview.

Pawson's career took off when he designed a flagship store for Calvin Klein in New York. Photo is by Christoph Kicherer After setting up his own office in London, Pawson's career took off when he was approached by fashion designer Calvin Klein in 1993 to design a flagship store for him in New York. "He was the most known fashion designer at the time. So it was quite surreal," he explained. "Because of his endorsement, people who weren't quite as adventurous or secure felt much better about hiring me for things." "I am irrational" Pawson has since designed large-scale architectural projects such as the Novy Dvur monastery in the Czech Republic and the Design Museum in London, as well as smaller home objects designed for brands such as Wästberg and Tekla.

Pawson's design for Abbey of Our Lady of Novy Dvur in the Czech Republic. Photo is by Hisao Suzuki Although he is celebrated for the calm minimalism of his projects, Pawson says his work has helped him compensate for his busy mind. "I am irrational. The calmness is an exterior and I think the work has been brilliant to me because filling the day and working really hard stops you slightly going mad," he explained. Check out the full Face to Face series Dezeen's Face to Face podcast series was produced by Dezeen's in-house creative team Dezeen Studio. Past episodes have featured Es Devlin, Thomas Heatherwick and David Chipperfield. The previous episode of Face to Face featured British designer Tom Dixon who described how a motorcycle crash forced him to abandon a career as a bass guitarist. The podcast features original music composed by Japanese designer and sound artist Yuri Suzuki. Face to Face is sponsored by Twinmotion, the real-time architectural visualisation solution that can create immersive photo and video renders in seconds. Subscribe to Dezeen's podcasts You can listen to Face to Face here on Dezeen or subscribe on podcast platforms such as Apple Podcasts, Spotify and Google Podcasts. The post "I am irrational and the work stops me going mad" says John Pawson in Dezeen's latest podcast appeared first on Dezeen. Source link Read the full article

#architecturelovers #designer #house #instagood #photo #render

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andrew-bain · 5 years

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The Pallants, Chichester. 30 March 2019

The first street scene I did of the trio for the Festival of Chichester exhibition was treated as a stage set with individual properties highlighted rather as scenery flats . The Pallant House Gallery extension designed by Colin St John Wilson .has beautiful brickwork but some preferred his rendered alternative . This and the blue house home in the late 18thC to eminent city resident and diarist John Marsh caught my attention in the bright afternoon sun. Also highlighted on the left is the flank to 9 West Pallant a house which incorporates a prison cell , while on the right is No 2 South Pallant which sports a rare horizontal sliding sash window more common in Yorkshire .

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km-theatre · 7 years

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Cast & Creatives The Ladykillers

NEW WOLSEY THEATRE IPSWICH SUFFOLK UK 15 SEP 2017

Friday 15 September 2017

Ann Penfold — Mrs Wilberforce

Theatre credits include: The Taming of the Shrew (RSC),Brighton Till I Die(Brighton),, Revenger's Tragedy, Deep Blue Sea,(West Yorkshire Playhouse)Saturday Sunday Monday (National Theatre/West End) The Wars of the Roses(English Shakespeare Company, world tour and Old Vic) Design for Living (Peter Hall Company,) The Winslow Boy,(Guildford and tour) The Contractor (Oxford Stage company tour) Forty Years On (Scarborough)The Glass Menagerie,(Greenwich), In Celebration,(Chichester.) Duet for One (Edinburgh, Lyceum)

At the Wolsey Theatre: The Winter's Tale; Hamlet; Romeo and Juliet; Mrs Warren's Profession; Perfect Days.

And at Salisbury Playhouse: For Services Rendered ( and at the Old Vic), and The Lady in the Van.

Television credits include: Tripped (Mammoth Screen), Doctors, Casualty, Sea of Souls, Dangerfield, No Place Like Home, Mrs Pym’s Day Out, Cranford, Villette, There is Also Tomorrow (BBC), The Bill, The Vice, Coronation Street, The Brontes of Haworth, The Ruth Rendell Mysteries (ITV) A Wing and a Prayer, Family Affairs (Ch5)

Film credits include: Keeping Rosy, Winter Sunlight, Family Life.

Steven Elliot — Professor Marcus

Theatre Credits Include: Frankenstein, The Winter’s Tale. (Royal National Theatre) Titus Andronicus, Julius Caesar, Revenger’s Tragedy, Henry V, Twelfth Night, Pentecost, The Bite of the Night, The Jew of Malta, Measure For Measure (Royal Shakespeare Company) The Devil Inside Him (National Theatre Wales) Dancing at Lughnasa (Abbey, Dublin) King Lear (Almeida, London) True West (Glasgow Citz) Arcadia (Bristol Old Vic) Frank, in Educating Rita (Oldham Coliseum) Dumb Show, Inherit the Wind (New Vic Theatre) The Weir (Sherman, Cardiff) Amadeus, Hamlet, And Then There Were None, Jane Austen’s ‘Emma’ (Salisbury Playhouse) Macbeth, Two Princes, A Chorus of Disapproval, Arcadia, Troilus and Cressida, Measure for Measure, The Suicide, Noises Off, Jumpy, Cyrano de Bergerac (Theatr Clwyd) Steven recently played the role of George Ring in an adaptation of ‘Adventures in the Skin Trade,’ by Dylan Thomas, at the Sydney Opera House and Melbourne Arts Centre, Australia. He also recently played Oscar Wilde in a tour of ‘The Trials of Oscar Wilde.’

Directing Credits Include: Assistant Director to Terry Hands on ‘Pygmalion’ by George Bernard Shaw (Theatr Clwyd) A Midsummer Night’s Dream (Rose Theatre, Kingston) Well Thumbed (Notional Theatre) The Dreamer (Maltings, Farnham)

Television Credits Include: Da Vinci’s Demons, Holby City, Judge John Deed, Ghostboat, Crash, Tunnel of Love, Porthpenwaig, Inspector Morse, Harpur and Isles, Art that Shook the World, 90 Days in Hollywood, Return to Treasure Island, That Uncertain Feeling, Rhinoceros, Van der Valk, 999 Killer on the line, Mike Bassett - Manager, Gwaith Cartref.

Film Credits Include: Steven has just finished filming ‘The Watcher in the Woods’ with Anjelica Huston, in which he plays the title role. Other Film work includes; Hamlet, Cold Earth, Rise of the Appliances, Trauma, Trail of Crimson, De Sade, Green Monkey and Time Bandits. Also recordings of Frankenstein (NT Live) King Lear and True West (Digital Theatre)

Graham Seed — Major Courtney

Graham trained at RADA and is best known for playing Nigel Pargetter in the radio series The Archers for 27 years, until the character’s untimely demise in January 2011. Theatre credits include: Dead Sheep and An Audience with Jimmy Savile (Park Theatre), Dead Sheep (National Tour),  Bedroom Farce and Separate Tables (Salisbury Playhouse), Flare Path (National Tour) Jim Hacker in Yes Prime Minister (National Tour), Basket Case with Nigel Havers (National Tour)Major Metcalf in The Mousetrap (60th Anniversary tour), Toad of Toad Hall (West End); Me and My Girl (Adelphi Theatre); Relatively Speaking and Confusions (national tour); Design for Living (English Touring Theatre); Twelfth Night (BAC); Translations (Watford and tour); A Chaste Maid of Cheapside (Almeida and tour); Someone to Watch Over Me (Frankfurt); An Eligible Man (New End, Hampstead); The Skin Game (Orange Tree); Nelson (Nuffield, Southampton); Present Laughter (Theatr Cymru); French Without Tears (Mill at Sonning); Journey’s End (National Tour) Accolade at the Finborough. He has also played many repertory seasons including: Birmingham, Greenwich,  Library Theatre, Manchester, and Perth.

Television credits include: The Durrells, I, Claudius, Edward VII, Brideshead Revisited, Mike Leigh’s Who’s Who, Victoria Wood: As Seen on TV, Jeeves and Wooster, The Cleopatras, Crossroads, Coronation Street, Brookside, Prime Suspect, Nature Boy, Dinnerladies, Station Jim, Band of Brothers, The Chatterley Affair, Doctors, Midsomer Murders and He Kills Coppers. Film credits include: Peterloo, Gandhi, Good and Bad at Games, Honest, Little Dorrit, These Foolish Things and Wild Target with Bill Nighy and Emily Blunt. Radio credits include: Nigel Pargetter in The Archers. He is an occasional presenter on ‘Pick of the Week’ and was a regular voice on ‘What The Papers’ Say’ both for Radio 4.  He was the recipient of the Broadcaster of the Year Award 2010 from the Broadcasting Press Guild and the Voice of Listener and Viewer Special Award 2010.

Marcus Houden — Constable Macdonald

Theatre credits include: The Tempest (Hope Theatre, London) - BroadwayWorldUK Best Leading Actor nomination, Overture Live (Hippodrome, London), Peter Pan (UK Tour), Robin Hood and the Babes in the Wood(Gala Theatre, Durham), Treasure Island (Cambridge Touring Theatre), A Midsummer Night’s Dream (International Tour), Romeo and Juliet, Sense and Sensibility (Chapterhouse Theatre Company), Bouncers(UK Tour), The Three Musketeers (Jamie Marcus Productions), The Merry Wives of Henry VIII (Edinburgh Festival), Art, Macbeth(Seagull Theatre), Tartuffe, The Beaux’ Stratagem (Lichfield Garrick) and Dick Whittington (Theatre Colwyn).

Damian Williams — One-Round

Damian became well known to television audiences in the early nineties for his appearances as Ginger Gahagan in the BBC series Billy Webb and the second series Alfonzo Bonzo. His other television appearances include Lumpy in Spatz; Gavin in Exam Conditions and Ian in The Bill. Damian was the presenter of Damian’s Are You Smarter Than Your 10 Year Old for Sky One and was also in the new series of Birds of a Feather.

Damian is always in demand for Musical Theatre and in 2013 and 2014 Damian played Edna Turnblad in Hairspray both at the Leicester Curve as well as a tour of Singapore and Kuala Lumpur.

Damian’s first love is comedy (his heroes are Laurel & Hardy) and he has played various comedy roles from Luther Billis in South Pacific to Pseudolus in A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum. Damian played Tommy Cooper in the new play Being Tommy Cooper, and toured in the one man play My Dog’s Got No Nose. Most recently he’s also played Tommy Cooper in the short film The Last Laugh, written and directed by Paul Hendy for which Damian won best Actor (Southampton film festival)

Damian has toured the country for over 25 years and has a wealth of experience in Theatre, a well respected farceur Damian has appeared in; Run for your wife, Cash on Delivery, Funny Money, Tom Dick & Harry, It Runs in the Family, Not now darling, There Goes The Bride, Out of Order, Caught in the Net, Dry Rot, See How they Run and Don’t Dress For Dinner.

As resident Dame of 10 years at the Sheffield Lyceum Damian is set to play Mother Goose this year.

Damian was born in Tilbury in Essex and now resides in Southend on sea with his wife Barbie. They are proud parents of twins, Joshua and Esme, undoubtedly Damian’s finest productions to date!

Anthony Dunn — Louis Harvey

Anthony has worked extensively as an actor in the UK, Europe, Canada and the United States over the last 30 years. Theatre includes Calamity Jane (UK and Ireland Tour), Paved in Gold (Canada), Birds (US Tour), Face (UK Tour), Buddy (Victoria Palace), Bouncers (Hull Truck), L'Ascencore (European Tour) and Don Quixote(Warehouse Theatre). His television appearances include The Murdoch Mysteries (US and Canada), Roomers and The Last Word for the BBC and Stuck on You, The Upper Hand and Frank Stubbs for ITV. Anthony has also worked in academia, teaching and doing Ph.D research in Washington and New Orleans. When not working as an actor, Anthony can be found taking groups of people on entertaining historical tours of London by road, river or foot.

Sam Lupton — Harry Robinson

Training: Manchester School Of Theatre (Man met, Acting)

Theatre includes: ‘Wilfred Crompton’ in Spring and Port Wine (Oldham Coliseum 2017); 'Seymour' in Little Shop Of Horrors (UK Tour 2016), 'Boq' in Wicked (Apollo Victoria Theatre, West End); 'Princeton’ & ‘Rod' in Avenue Q (UK Tour 2012); 'Man' in Starting Here, Starting Now'; Greg' in Single Sex and 'Gena Hamlet' in Galka Motalka (Royal Exchange Theatre, Manchester); 'Harry' in Love On The Dole and 'Young Collector/Sailor' in A Streetcar Named Desire (Bolton Octagon); 'Colin Ireland & Robin Oake' in Out Out Out (Pitgems Theatre); "Jim/Ensemble" in The Hired Man (Bolton Octagon) which won the 2010 TMA Award for Best Performance in a Musical, awarded to the entire ensemble. He Also originated the role of 'Ben' in Firing Life.

Television includes: The Late Late Show (RTE) and Ireland:AM (TV3).

Radio Includes: 'Nino Sarratore' in The Story Of A New Name & My Brilliant Friend (BBC Radio 4), Various Characters in National Velvet (BBC Radio 4)

Workshops: 'Boy & Zacky' in Big Fish; 'John-Michael' in Doris Stokes

Other Work Includes: The Music of Kooman & Diamond (IlliaDebuts, London Debut), "The Concrete Jungle": UK Album Launch (IlliaDebuts), 'West End Switched Off' (Parallel Productions)

Sam has also worked as a puppet coach for the 2014 professional UK tour of Avenue Q. In 2016 he made is directorial debut with How To Curse at London's Etcetera Theatre.

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chriscope · 6 years

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I am standing at my bedroom window, looking down at the 2017 Triumph Tiger 800 XRT parked in my back garden, light rain plinking off its aluminum panniers and top box. A wave of melancholy comes at the thought of the mysterious red dirt embedded in the bike’s nooks and crannies now washing away.

YOU CAN MAKE MORE ADVENTURES LIKE THIS HAPPEN Become a Patron of The Motorcycle Obsession

The dirt is unlike any you’ll find in the United Kingdom. It’s clearly from somewhere far away, somewhere warm, somewhere far more interesting than Cardiff. It was one of the first things I spotted when Triumph delivered the bike to my house earlier this morning. Digging into the battered cases I also found a soggy, lone sock in the top box. This bike has been places; it has done exciting things.

Plotting my route from the warmth of the 1902 Cafe.

It is at my house because I’m supposed to be riding it to EICMA. Every November, I borrow a bike and ride to the Milan-based motorcycle show to see the newest bikes being revealed, as well as put my business card in people’s hands. It would be cheaper, faster, and easier to fly but, you know: motorcycles, man.

It’s become clear, however, that I won’t be going this year. Red tape. I’ve lived in Her Majesty’s United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland for nigh 12 years but am still classed as a foreigner. Every two and a half years, I have to renew my visa – a process that involves sending every official document I have, including passport and driving license, to a small town in northeast England. Said stuff was sent months ago, but it has not yet been sent back.

Such is the joy of being an immigrant, man: they can do whatever they want to you. Without my passport I can’t leave the country. But damn it, this bike still deserves an adventure.

2017 Triumph Tiger 800 XRT

A week later, I’m making my way north to Scotland. My frequent riding buddy and occasional cameraman, Cam, and I have decided to ride to the Isle of Skye. An island famed for its mercurial weather, where else would you go with winter coming on?

RELATED: The European Adventures of Shuffles, Jon, and Me

Cam lives in Dunblane (famously home to tennis champs Andy and Jamie Murray), which is roughly equidistant from Glasgow and Edinburgh. Some 430 miles from TMO headquarters, it’s easily within a day’s ride for a comfy, all-bells-and-whistles machine like the Triumph Tiger 800 XRT (cruise control, heated grips, and heated seat are standard), but I’m in the mood to keep things slow. Using a map from Bikers’ Britain, by Simon Weir, I’m doing my best to avoid motorways and taking two days to get to Dunblane.

It is markedly cold but unseasonably dry. I’ve purchased a Keis V501 premium heated vest and am happily nestled in its warmth – the bike’s heated grips and heated seat both cranked to high.

This is more or less the route I followed on the first day, hopping on at Monmouth, detouring to Triumph’s factory cafe, and spending the night in Burnley – a little west of Hebden Bridge.

This is the second-generation Tiger 800 XRT, rendered obsolete by the third-generation Tiger lineup announced at EICMA (Hence the reason I’ve felt no pressure to write up the experience until several months after the fact). A few months from now, I will get a chance to ride the new Tiger 800, as well as the new Tiger 1200, and discover that third generation models aren’t really all that different from second generation. In the moment, though, I feel I’m riding on the last of a breed and wondering why Triumph would want to change a bike as good as this.

I’m also wondering what’s changed about me. Last time I rode a second-generation Tiger 800 – a little more than two years ago – my response was lukewarm. I described the bike as “disappointing” and couldn’t find much about it that I liked over the Suzuki V-Strom 1000 I owned at the time. Maybe my tastes have changed? Certainly I’m a more confident rider now. And I’m more willing to seek out a bike’s upper rev range. With the Suzuki, there’s little reason to explore above 6,000 rpm – it’s mostly just noise from that point to the 10,000 rpm redline – on the Triumph 800, however, that’s really where the fun starts. Maybe I was riding the Tiger wrong last time.

Another reason I originally disliked the Tiger 800 is that it’s just so ugly.

Whatever the case, things now feel right. The bike’s 800cc triple puts out a respectable 94 horsepower, and delivery of that power is so sublime that I’m feeling foolish for having bought the more powerful but also more expensive and much heavier Tiger Explorer XRX. Everything I need is right here.

KEEP READING: Riding the Blue Ridge Parkway on a BMW K 1600 B

A late start means I don’t make it to the Peak District until early winter sunset has turned the sky a dirty orange. Roads are relatively quiet this time of year but soon I’m battling against commuters making their way home for the day. I give in and take main roads to be able to get to my hotel in time for a late dinner.

Sunset in the Peak District

The next morning, I’m on the road at sunrise. Which is to say, I intend to be on the road at sunrise. I don’t actually get moving until a full hour or so later. This is frustrating; the days are short at this time of year, especially as you push north. In early November, the sun sets around 4 pm in Scotland, with darkness beginning to creep in as early as 2 pm. You don’t want to be wasting daylight.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have wanted to be out any earlier, though. There are patches of ice on the sides of the road as I make my way through Yorkshire Dales National Park. Hitting these roads “late” has given the sun time to melt away the worst of it. The scenery is incredible and this is clearly the time of year to visit – no tourists.

I really wish I had taken a few pictures. But, as I say, it is cold. I am cocooned in the warmth of heated gear and disinclined to stop. I want to fuss with the heated vest as little as possible. It’s a useful bit of kit, but Sweet Baby Jesus, is it a colossal pain in the ass.

The Keis V501 is nice to have in cold weather but it is also, as the Welsh like to say, a massive ball ache.

The controller’s wires aren’t very long, so, in order to turn it on/set it I have to open my jacket. To unzip my jacket, I have to take off my Klim Adventure gloves, which I’m wearing with liners. To be able to look down at the controller, I have to flip up the lid of my Schuberth C3 Pro. Meanwhile, to operate the controller the bike has to be on. So, every single time I want to set off, the process starts with me straddling a running bike – jacket open, helmet face flipped up, and gloves stuffed between the bike’s windscreen and dash. I set the controller to medium because the heated vest’s instructions say not use it on high (THEN WHY THE HELL DID YOU MAKE IT AN OPTION, KEIS????), then zip up my jacket. I pull my neck buff up over my face, lower the front of the helmet, then carefully – making sure not to drop the gloves, else I be forced to unplug the heated vest, get off the bike, and do this all over again – put on the liners, then the gloves. Frustrating. Pain. In. The. Ass.

By lunch I’m in Lake District National Park, making good enough time I could probably make it through most of southern Scotland before dark. “Could probably” – were it not for my need to run up and down Kirkstone Pass, a narrow, winding stretch that connects the Ullswater and Rothay valleys on the eastern side of the park.

SIMILAR: Exploring the Indian Scout Sixty’s Irish Heritage

The elevation of the pass is just shy of 1,500 feet, the road is wet, and the Tiger 800’s external temperature readout says it’s 3ºC (37.4ºF). That readout is optimistic, so it’s more than likely only just above freezing. But the sun is out and the road abandoned. I push the bike as hard as I dare through the corners over and over and over, up and down the pass. Even with loaded 35-liter panniers and a 35-liter topbox the bike is surprisingly nimble, and I lose track of time.

Kirkstone Pass – The road was all mine. I had to ride it.

I jump on the motorway just before sunset, cruise control locked at 85 mph as I cross the Scottish border. I arrive at Cam’s house a few hours later in pitch dark – just in time to say goodnight to his children before they are are sent off to bed. We open a few bottles of beer and tuck into takeaway curries, discussing the various bikes revealed at EICMA. Cam’s wife, Tracy, manages to feign interest for a while but eventually leaves us on our own.

The next morning I’m up before sunrise, before anyone else. After showering and organizing my kit I head down to the kitchen. Tracy had set out pastries the night before. I make a cup of tea and enjoy a danish or three, watching the slow morning light reveal a back yard completely covered in frost. Cam’s house is warm and modern, and quite large by British standards. It feels American to me, which is a good thing. Knowledge of the welcoming family of five that occupies the house makes it feel even warmer and I feel like Peter in that 1980s Folgers ad.

The frost is still there a few hours later when Cam and I finally gear up and hit the road. The Tiger 800’s temperature gauge reads 1º C and we ride gingerly through his neighborhood, which has not been salted. To add warmth, I’ve taken to wearing my Dainese D-Crust Plus jacket and pants. I feel a little like Randy in A Christmas Story (“I can’t put my arms down!“), and the heated vest palaver is now even more a pain in the ass, but I’m at least comfortable.

Cold Chris is cold (notice the snow on the mountains behind me).

Half an hour into the ride, Cam’s swearing over the intercom (we both have Schuberth C3 Pro helmets, and are each using the somewhat glitchy Sena SC10U system to communicate while riding).

“Gah,” he exclaims in his lightly Glaswegian burr. “I’m boilin’!”

MORE TRAVEL IN CELTIC COUNTRIES: Great Welsh Tea Towel Adventure: Aberaeron

This always happens when we ride together. A Texas guy and a Scottish guy. I come close to freezing to death while he melts. Other than our thermal incompatibility, however, Cam’s a good riding buddy. I’ve mentioned before the importance of choosing people you can tolerate for long stretches of time when traveling by bike. Cam’s that guy.

I do my best not to complain about the cold because the day is gorgeous. I had been expecting pure Scottish misery but instead the air is crisp, the sky blue. And there are no tourists.

Are you picking up a theme here? The United Kingdom is roughly the size of Oregon in area (I say “roughly;” Oregon is bigger than the United Kingdom by more than 5,000 square kilometers, which is about the size of Puerto Rico), while being home to an estimated 67 million people. That means that there are, on average, 271 people filling up every square kilometer. Whereas in Oregon there are just 39 souls occupying the same amount of space.

Meanwhile, the United Kingdom plays host to some 37 million visitors each year. That’s equivalent to the population of Canada. Most of those visitors come in the summer, when the 67 million people who live here are inclined to take vacations. The two-lane roads that serve an area of beauty like the Scottish Highlands – where we’re riding now – become scenic parking lots.

Happy to freeze for views like these.

To see it now in the early winter, relatively empty and more or less as God made it, kicks me in the chest. It’s worth the numb fingers. The beauty feels surreal, to the extent you almost feel as if you’re being taunted. Each time we come around a bend or through a pass to yet another sweeping vista I’ll shout, “Fuck you, Scotland! Fuck you for being so gorgeous,” and Cam bursts into laughter.

Scotland is, of course, pretty far north. The country’s southern border sits more or less on the 55th parallel, which geography nerds will know is north of every US state save Alaska – it is a line that runs above all of Canada’s major cities. Travel four hours north of that line and you reach the Scottish town of Fort William. At this time of year especially, Scotland feels like it’s on the top of the world and Fort William feels like the last reasonably sized town on earth; there be monsters beyond.

It serves as the obvious choice for lunch. It’s Armistice Day and the town is bustling with people who have come in to either see the parade or do a bit of shopping, or both. We pick a middling pub on the main road offering the traditional British fare of foodstuffs served exceedingly hot and dripping with cheese to mask absence of flavor or nutritional value.

Scotland, tho

We take our time – too much, in fact. Checking his mapping app, Cam suddenly realizes it will take an hour and 15 minutes for us to get from Fort William to Mallaig, where we’re scheduled to catch the one ferry of the day to Skye. It’s 2:30 pm, the boat sails at 4:30, and our tickets insist we be there half an hour before departure. Work in the time needed to walk back to the bikes and for me to go through the whole heated vest routine, and we should have already left.

Cam takes care of the bill and I start walking back to the bikes, gearing up as much as possible en route. When I get to the bikes I dig into my pants pocket and… the Triumph’s key isn’t there.

I’m wearing my Hideout Hybrid leather riding pants beneath the D-Crust waterproof trousers, so getting at the hip pocket is a little tricky. I dig my hand fully inside to feel around – nope, nothing there. I check the other hip pocket. Nothing. Cam arrives and I’m swearing.

Cam takes in the scenery

“Perhaps it slipped down the trouser leg of your waterproofs,” he says. “Might be in your boot or something.”

I slap at my thigh. Not feeling anything, I go back to checking my pockets. No key in the waterproof jacket’s breast pocket. No key in the right external pocket of my Hideout Touring jacket. No key in the left external pocket. No key in the right internal pocket. No key in the left internal pocket. No key in the right pocket of the heated vest. No key in the left pocket. No key in the breast pocket of my mid-layer shirt. I check them all again, several times, swearing more and more profusely.

“And it’s definitely not slipped down into your waterproof trousers?” asks Cam.

“Well, if it did, it will have fallen out the leg as I was walking,” I say, jogging back toward the pub. “Let’s retrace our steps.”

I scour the ground. Cam runs to the pub, checks there, then makes his way back. We meet halfway and start checking with nearby businesses, asking if anyone’s handed in a key. This is a small town, so the shop attendants are unnecessarily inquisitive.

ME: “Excuse me, has anyone turned in a lost key here?” ATTENDANT: “A key? What sort of a key?” ME: “To a motorbike. I’ve lost the key to my bike.” ATTENDANT: “Oh, dear. What sort of a bike is it?” ME: “Uh… it’s a Triumph.” ATTENDANT: “Oh, aye. What’s the key look like?” ME: “Well, uhm, you know, like a car key – metal bit and a black plastic bit that you hold on to. There’s a T on it, for ‘Triumph.'” ATTENDANT: “I see. Nay. We’ve not had anyone hand in any keys today. Have you looked in all your pockets?”

After checking the shops, I retrace my steps again, walking slowly this time, paying close attention to the ground. My mind is spinning on thoughts of what happens now. I’m not worried about missing the ferry but how to explain this to Triumph: “Uhm, hi guys. I’ve lost the key to the Tiger 800 XRT. You’re going to need to come get it. It’s at the top of the world. All my stuff is locked in the panniers, so if you could get here quickly, that’d be great…”

Back to the bikes, Cam again suggests I check the legs of my waterproof trousers. I look at him, ready to snap.

“OK, fine! Here’s what I’m going to do, you nagging son of a bitch,” I say. “I’m going to strip down to my bare ass in this parking lot and show you that there is no key on my person, which is what I have told you several times.”

No, that’s not at all what I say; I’m just thinking it. The words that actually come out of my mouth are simply: “Well, maybe you’re right. I’ll take them off, so I can check thoroughly.”

Which is a fortunate thing to have said, because you’ve already guessed what happens, right? The key plops to the ground as soon as I unzip the leg of my waterproofs; it’s been stuck in the top of my boot this whole time. And we now have less than an hour to get to Mallaig.

In the movie version of my life, the scene would now shift to the placid shores of Loch Eilt, a quiet lake in the middle of nowhere, along the north side of which runs the A380 – the road from Fort William to Mallaig. Picture yourself there now. It’s quiet and bewitching; the sky is beginning the long, beautiful, shimmering process of winter sunset. Everything is good and right with the world. Then…

WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH WAH WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH BRRRRRRRRRRRRRR VWHA-WHAAAAAAAAAAAAA BRRRRRRRRRR WHAAAAAAAAAAAAA-WHAAAAAA

Turns out motorbikes are loaded onto the ferry first. Had we not arrived in time to get aboard before everyone else we would not have been allowed to board at all.

That’s the sound of the Tiger 800 screaming as I push it to its max speed, tipping into corners so hard that some faraway back-of-the-mind thought imagines the panniers touching down. Cam is nowhere to be seen, but I figure that if I can get there before final check-in I can drag my feet long enough for him to show up. A few miles short of Mallaig, though, I get the yips and become convinced there’s a cop lurking just around the corner.

There isn’t, but it’s OK. I’ve made up enough time. Cam catches up just as we get to Mallaig and we check in with exactly one minute to spare. A few minutes later we’re directed to ride onto the ship. The ride to Skye is short and we never lose sight of land – indeed, it feels more as if we’re crossing a big lake than venturing into the cold north Atlantic Ocean, but I feel about as far from home as I can ever remember. It’s a hell of a long way from Houston, y’all.

As we cross, night begins to rush in. Our hotel is only a few miles from where the ferry docks and we arrive with the very dying of the light. Picked completely at random because Google Maps had identified it as being on our route, the hotel turns out to be one of the best I’ve stayed at in a very long time. Cam and I are put into a cottage that looks out on the sea. Walking to the water’s edge, I look up and see little moving windows of dark, star-filled sky – breaks in the cloud cover.

We eat dinner in the hotel’s rustic restaurant/pub, which is packed with the warmth of people. Every seat is full. Some are hotel guests, but many are locals. Cam and I find a spot next to the fire and I scratch the ears of a dog that’s excitedly trying to angle himself to capitalize on anyone’s dropped food. With each consecutive pint of Guinness the desire to stay for several more days grows stronger. I mean, hey, I’ve got my laptop; the hotel’s got (subpar) WiFi; I could work from here…

Few sights could be more welcoming on a dark, freezing Scottish night.

Warm and cozy inside

So happy…

When we eventually call it a night and stumble out into the pitch black my head spins with that incredible mix of fresh air and booze. This is so much better than going to EICMA.

A light snow falls over night, and turns to squalls of freezing rain by sunrise. They come and go within a few minutes of each other, interspersed with brilliant, glowing sunshine. Because it’s a Sunday, breakfast isn’t being served until 8:30 am, which means we won’t be on the road until at least 9:30 (remember the sparsity of daylight at this time of year), but we don’t care. This place is beautiful.

The smug look of a man who is somehow able to claim that doing all this is his job.

We walk around a little before breakfast, taking pictures and making internal plans to bring our respective loved ones back here. I can’t wait to show Jenn this place some day. Breakfast is hearty and delicious – you wouldn’t have expected any less – and we manage to roll away from the hotel shortly after 10. It’s Sunday and we’ll be heading our separate ways today. Cam has a real job, so has only had a weekend to spare. And, well, technically I have a job, too – which I’m better able to do from my office at home than a hotel room.

The goal is to spend the daylight making our way south, then split up once we hit Loch Lomond and the Trossachs National Park. Cam will head southeast to Dunblane and I’ll push straight south en route to an overnight stop in Lancaster. Before we go our separate ways, however, I want to make sure Cam gets a chance to spend some time riding the Triumph.

Cam, about to ride the Triumph Tiger 800 XRT.

Within 45 seconds of his getting on the bike he’s giggling on the intercom and saying, “Wheeeee!” as he twists the throttle to make it leap forward. Meanwhile, riding his F800GT behind him, I can fully understand why he has fallen out of love with the thing. I feel a deep sense of guilt for having been the person to suggest the bike to him in the first place. Six months later, he will buy a brand new 2018 (third-generation) Triumph Tiger 800 XRT and he will still giggle each time he rides it.

We take the long way back down, leaving the island via the Skye Bridge, a loping structure that looks to have been inspired by a child’s Duplo train set. It’s Remembrance Sunday and at one point we get stopped to allow a parade to march past. We’re on the A87 – pretty much the only road in these parts – and it tickles me that officials and locals are perfectly content to see the whole thing shut for the sake of a brass band and some bagpipes. Scotland is great.

Cam and I are making lots of tea-and-cake stops today. Partially because, hey, tea and cake, but also in a subconscious effort to postpone having to part ways and head back to regular routines. We’ve lucked out this weekend. There’s no way you could predict such good riding conditions up here at this time of year. Indeed, less than a week from today I’ll note from Cam’s Facebook feed that they got 3 inches of snow in Dunblane.

At our final tea-and-cake stop, the Green Welly, we say our goodbyes and exchange slapping hugs, then speed off into the oncoming night. When I get home to Cardiff late the next afternoon, there is an official-looking package on my desk. My visa has been renewed, my passport returned. I find myself thankful for government inefficiency. I didn’t get to go to EICMA, but the Tiger 800 still got an adventure. So did I.

Take a look at the registration plate on the Triumph (KW16 YNS), then take a look at the registration plate on the red Triumph in this story, which I commissioned for RideApart last year. I guess that explains the origin of the red dirt.

MORE PRETTY PICTURES I TOOK OF SCOTLAND

Fishing traps on a dock near my hotel on the Isle of Skye

I’m a sucker for a good ol’ snow-capped mountain.

Technically I was on an adventure bike, but I chose not to follow this track into a river.

Look at the house off on the right. Sure would suck to live there…

Side note: The Google Pixel phone takes pretty decent pictures.

This was the view from my hotel bedroom when I woke up.

It's the middle of summer, but we're remembering when we rode a @OfficialTriumph Tiger 800 to the Isle of Skye last winter and had a great time. I am standing at my bedroom window, looking down at the 2017 Triumph Tiger 800 XRT parked in my back garden, light rain plinking off its aluminum panniers and top box.

#Adventure bikes #Road trip #Scotland #Touring #Triumph #United Kingdom

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mackinnon25mcdaniel-blog · 6 years

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olwog · 7 years

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So Peeps, today we learn that there’s a wobbly scene reminiscing about tatie (potato) picking, that mud is a good substitute for ice and a glorious sunset can be the ideal ending to a brilliant day.

Carol is predicting a slightly overcast day but temperatures around 13C and the rain band affecting Scotland is likely to stay there so we should be OK.

I’m driving to Swainby to pick up Peter and thence to Whitby. We take the moor road and it’s a pleasure today, we only meet two other vehicles which means there is ample time to appreciate the beautiful, if desolate, moor tops and there’s a surprising twist; there are several oases of yellow shining out in a stunning solar display lifting what would otherwise be a desert of heather with the odd loan tree. It’s the gorse and I thought it only blossomed in the spring but these plants have clearly got their clock wrong and it looks fabulous because of it.

We arrive in Whitby in good time and park in what are now free places near the whale jaw bones on West Cliff. During the winter months the parking meters are shrouded with a bag like a condemned man only the message is far better; it means we don’t don’t pay!

Dave has got behind several tractors and is running a little late so we pass the time with our cameras taking the kind of photographs that have been shot from this point since Frank Sutcliffe prowled these parts with his big plate camera in the 19th century.

First the Abbey, then Captain Cook then maybe the whale bones, no not this time; we do our best to contrive something different and maybe we achieve partial success; however, there are only so many ways you can shoot Whitby from West Cliff so we settle on what I would advise you to do; put the camera away and appreciate this fabulous sight for what it is, a beautiful vista, forever changing as light and weather influence what you see and feel. We have a few glorious minutes of this and take time to appreciate the above before the two Daves and other two Georges arrive.

A quick change into walking boots later and we’re on our way down the Khyber Pass (that name has always amused me even from childhood days) to the fish docks and past the amusement arcades to the swing bridge. It’s still early but there are stalls opening and cafes moving from breakfast to mid-morning snacks and even a kiosk with hamburgers and chips, bit early for me but, hey, each to his own.

We cross the swing bridge and turn left on to Sandgate, call at the free toilets at the Market Place (we are of an age and prostates are bigger than bladders) then left onto Church Street and brace ourselves for the 199 steps. I remember counting these when I was a kid and something would always jump into my mind as I counted, then I’d forget where I’d got to, then I’d guess and at the top it would never be 199, I don’t try this today but we do all walk up in one go and I’m amazed and proud of our level of fitness.

We make our way past St Mary’s Church and on towards the abbey then turn left towards the cliffs. The Cleveland Way is well signed from here and the views are spectacular and will remain so for the majority of the walk.

It’s not long before Saltwick Nab comes into view and I can’t help but think about the erosion that’s taken place to create such a fabulous coast line. We’re not particularly high at between 200 and 300 feet (approx 100 metres) but it does mean we can be mesmerised by the rolling ocean breaking on the rocks at the bottom. There is a fence between us and certain death at this point but it’s not there for the entirety of the walk and it makes me think “Why should it?”. I do have an issue with our propensity to put up a sign that explains the obvious. “Dangerous Cliffs” seems to me to be superfluous and I’m quite certain that if you fall off this one, you won’t be in pain for long.

We’re approaching the Fog Horn station now and it’s the first time I’ve seen it, in fact it’s the first time I’ve seen any fog horn and there are two pointing in different directions covering the North and the South of the coast. I’ve heard it on many occasions whilst visiting Whitby when I was working for the North Riding County Council many years ago and thought the monotonous drone came from near the Abbey but it’s a little further along the coast.

There’s a quick pee break and we’re off again and meet our first mud field where walking becomes a lottery between standing on something solid but with a coefficient of friction similar to ice on a bobsled run and standing on a piece of clay that looks solid but turns out to be 4 inches of sucking mud.

There’s a surprising number of people around the George informs us that for many of the schools this is the October break, he’s telling me that York schools have this week off. This knowledge and the smell of the mud and clay remind me that when I was a kid the October holiday was referred to as (potato) tatie picking week and we’d walk along deeply recessed lanes with high hedges to remote farmhouse to ask if there were any jobs picking taties.

/*StartWobblyScene We would be paid 10 shillings to 15 shillings per day (50p to 75p), yes you read that right; and it was back breaking work bent over finding the potatoes and rubbing off any soil or mud and putting them into a basket. When the basket was full, and it didn’t take long, we then emptied it into a trailer that would be moving along the adjacent rows, often driverless, at a very slow walking pace. The potatoes had been harvested by quite a crude machine with a rotating fork mounted on the back of a tractor. The twin tines of the fork would spin around and hit the ridge of soil at right angles to discourage the white veg onto the soil to the side. Over the years some farmers planted other varieties and we had the delight of ‘Red Skins’ to pick during one harvest. As the name suggests they were a very pale red and as I’m colour blind (although I didn’t know then) I struggled to differentiate them from the soil and would leave far too many unharvested for that particular farmer and had to look elsewhere for a job picking white ones.

We started work about half seven and as a twelve year old that time normally happened only once a day and that was during the evening. We’d work until ten o’clock and then stop for ten minutes for our allowance (usually referred to by the farmer’s wife as ‘lowance and the words, “Cum n get thee ‘lowance” were music to my ears. It usually consisted of an enamel jug full of strong Yorkshire tea with milk already added. This was poured into mugs that had chips out of the enamel and you had to be careful to hold them only by the handle as the conduction of the heat from the scalding tea meant the sides of the mug could render your digits free of fingerprints in seconds.

She usually brought scones that had already been cut in two and liberally spread with salted butter, sometimes they were still slightly warm and the butter would have melted into them, they were divine.

At lunch time we got the same but the scones were substituted for ham sandwiches with the bread in slices that, when combined with meat cut quarter of an inch thick, created a doorstep of a sandwich that was the thickness of a paperback book. All of this is memorable but the outstanding thing was the butter; when you bit into a sandwich you’d leave tooth lines through the layer of lightly salted, artery coating, heart stopping yellow churn and when tasted with the salted ham the result was instantaneous heaven. We didn’t get the opportunity to wash our hands so they’d be grubby with mud or soil so on the first day we’d hold the bread using two fingers and thumb and not repositiion them, once we’d eaten our way around our digits and got as close to them using a nibbling technique we’d throw the last tiny bit away with the mud or soil still impregnated in the bread. After the first day and we knew how good it was we we would eat the whole thing including the soily/muddy bit anyway and sod the consequences (in fairness, there were never any ‘consequences’ I don’t think a bit of soil ever hurt anyone)

By three in the afternoon the salt would have worked its magic and by the time afternoon ‘lowance came along it would be all we could do to resist the temptation to wrest the enamel jug from the clutch of the farmer’s wife and glug the contents with complete disregard to temperature or the needs of fellow workers such was the irrational and selfish result of the salt induced thirst. The smell of the mud on this walk will evoke these memories at several points along the route, I’m OK with that, they were happy days. /*EndWobblyScene

The track is quite undulating, more than I expected but it does raise the heart rate and the views are good. As we pass Rainfall Slack there is more gorse as yellow as the sun on an autumn eve and we take some photographs to celebrate its joy. Yellow is such an uplifting colour and so unexpected in autumn.

Just another climb now through more mud and some quite challenging pools of clay and water, we see people heading in the opposite direction and one particular lady shows us the muddy results of her encounter with yet more mud near Robin Hood’s Bay, her back and backside are covered in the dried remains of what looked like quite a slide in the stuff.

**Robin Hoods Bay* There is an English ballad about Robin Hoods Bay in which Robin is purported to have nipped across from Sherwood when he heard there were French pirates causing havoc on the coast. He gave them a good thrashing and returned their ill-gotten gains to the local people, re-flowered the de-flowered virgins and resurrected the men who had been killed defending them. As an act of gratitude, the villagers named their row of houses after him as a thank you. OK, there may be a modicum of exaggeration and maybe a hint of embellishment but you get my drift.

It’s a cracking little village now with quaint narrow streets and secret passageways here and there. It used to be a major port for smugglers and you can see why. There are rumours of underground passageways that link the houses to enable contraband to be moved about quickly when coast guards or their equivalent came sniffing**

We’re lucky and manage to negotiate the wettest bits with only a minor incident and begin our final sector through a field where we meet Jan who did a couple of sectors with us on Louise Graydon’s Cleveland Way walk through the Summer.

Our final leg is down into Robin Hoods Bay. We’re on to normal ground where our feet stay where we put them and we make our way, with a little bit of direction from a local, to the bus stop. We’re 15 minutes early for the x39 that’ll take us back to our start point for free, we do like our OFP’s.

We normally call at Trenchers for our fish-n-chip reward but decide on the Fisherman’s Wife Restaurant on the Khyber Pass, it has great views; however, the prices are top-endish, the service average and the quality is only OK.

The day was excellent though and the trip back exposes us to some of the most beautiful skies I’ve seen for a while. There is every type of cloud formation including mammatus clouds and they’re all lit up by a low sun. The sky is on fire and this is a great end to fabulous day.

Enjoy the snaps…G..x

If you think others would enjoy the pictures, walks and anecdotes please feel free to “share” using the links. Thanks.

This is life after an Abdominal Aortic Aneurysm open repair. Don’t be afraid of the operation, it set me free. Please be encouraged and inspired to walk, it’s liberating…G..x

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Whitby to Robin Hood’s Bay So Peeps, today we learn that there’s a wobbly scene reminiscing about tatie (potato) picking, that mud is a good substitute for ice and a glorious sunset can be the ideal ending to a brilliant day.

#AAA #Abdominal Aortic Aneurysm #Cleveland Way #Landscapes #North Yorkshire Moors #Photographs #Photos #Pictures #Robin Hoods Bay #Walking #Walks #Whitby #Yorkshire #Yorkshire Moors

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lilynoellerogers · 7 years

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Cuba, Libre

From the moment the plane hovered overhead, fought back by warm sweeping winds, I could tell we had entered a different world. Already the 5am wakeup, the disorientation of being alone on a voyage I had envisioned for two, and a five hour flight had left my head a bit spun out. But landing in Havana, and all that followed that day, gave me a sense of being suspended in time and place. It was pure magic. In the final miles that the plane descended on the lush tropical landscape of Cuba, small scenes caught my eye: a group crossing a green plain on horseback to check the crops, exuberantly bright old cars barreling along a highway going about 50 but looking like they were pushing themselves to the brink, pockets of dense jungle scattered within a mile or two of Habana Centro. The plane landed smoothly, despite the strong gales of wind, and a ramshackle faded yellow airport building appeared. We were bussed over to it and were ushered in, where numbered cubicles that looked like small wooden phone booths were the vessels we would pass through to a land that felt like the Wild Un-West. A few quick questions from an immigration officer and then a mystery door, opening up to Cuba. An immediate rush of people appeared, some well intentioned, some not as much. In the bathroom a cleaning lady hoped to do an unofficial currency exchange with me. I navigated through the crowd to get a taxi, which ended up being a new vehicle with AC rather than the 51 Chevy convertible of my dreams. But those pushed along the road with us, some looking as though they had been worked to the bone and others as though they hadn’t exited a garage since whatever year in the 1950’s they had been made. An occasional pink Cadillac would sidle up alongside us. Men selling mangos rushed to do a quick exchange with a car in front of us on the highway - “only in Cuba,” my driver said with a chuckle. Cuba by and large felt safer than many places with a similar demographic, though some opportunists were emboldened by the recent rush of tourism. My driver began to tell me about trips I could take to the countryside, and I started to prepare a kind but firm defense, knowing that the pitch for his services was forthcoming. Instead, he surprised me by suggesting that I take the bus for a couple CUC, or to walk through Habana Centro rather than taking a taxicab. He really wanted me to have a good time, and that made me smile. Somehow it felt like everywhere else we had slipped into the era of young capitalists seeing the chance for a quick buck rather than the simplicity of people who loved their country and wanted others to experience it’s beauty too. Walking down the streets also felt safe. The only frustrations were people begging for money and men hitting on me in Spanish (for which I didn't have a full enough Spanish vocabulary to adequately warn them off). I arrived to the building where my homestay was located, and a man smoking a cigar lingered in the doorway. He grunted a bit and directed me where to go. Another ancient looking man with a bulbous nose was slumped on the stairs, and his eyes smiled at me. I found my host, Magalys, who I exchanged excited noises of greeting with in lieu of a common language. My mind flashed to google translate - but there’s truly no service anywhere in Cuba. Not even easy wifi. It’s complicated. So with no raft to save us, she rattled on in Spanish, I caught every fourth word and the general gist, and smiled inside at how much I appreciated the simplicity of it all. This was a different world. The lack of technology and virtually no internet was one of the most striking things I first experienced in Cuba. I used a paper map to navigate and made educated guesses. I gestured a lot with my hands and employed a broad smile. I seemed to over-rely on the word “perfecto” for everything. Low-tech seemed to change the nature of everything. Even the fact that I pushed through a writer’s block the minute I arrived was telling. When I first found Magalys I walked past apartment doors, all mostly open but some with a barred door just to stop people from walking in. Small windows into small worlds, and again a different era. Ancient TV sets and photos of granddaughters alongside renderings of Jesus were the pretty vignettes through the bars. Beams of golden light, brightly colored walls, overgrown plants, and indoor/outdoor living abounded. I was loving Cuba. My apartment was clean, bright, and perfect. Twin balconies overlooked the streets of Havana. The capital shone in one direction and Plaza Vieja in the other. An old cherry apple red Ford convertible idled below while a group of men chatted. Stray kittens mewed and meandered across the street while street puppies play fought beside them. I ventured out in the world after unpacking a bit. I ended up At El Del Frente, a place I could tell would be my new home base. Fresh juice and a welcoming environment, as well as some young English speaking Cuban guys who told me I was their “favorite customer ever.” I’m a sucker for feeling special. I had baked plantain chips, a sweet potato puree, and some incredibly fresh cold lobster tacos. I met an English couple from Yorkshire who were incredulous I was alone, and the woman in particular seemed to feel a bit of motherly responsibility for me. As we ate on a small terrace one floor up, able to somewhat invisibly observe the happenings down below, a Michael Jackson impersonator very enthusiastically (but not too adeptly) performed some renditions of “Black or White” and “Thriller,” complete with sparkly glove. I became lost in my own imaginings of this man as a young boy, watching the only VHS tape in the house of a Michael Jackson concert, drilling himself on the moves and sounds so that someday he could voyage out with a very particular set of skills. My new friends from the UK, Shelley and Rick, took me afterwards to a bar they had been to before dinner, where there was live music. A group of women ran through songs that seemed every Cuban person in the room knew, and brayed along drunkenly. People were salsa dancing, smoking, imbibing in the crowded but pulsing space. This felt like Cuba. “Stand by Me” was also thrown into the mix and we had a chance to sing along. My usual judgments or self-consciousness in this was nowhere to be found. A city, colorful and alive, was allowing me to feel like me.

But it’s funny how days can go. The last line of this, both poignantly true and utterly false on day two. The thing I thought would be tough about traveling as a single woman alone in Cuba, my (lack of) safety or being an easy target, was only partly true. I felt pretty safe, even on blocks that looked as torn apart as Aleppo, but I was constantly catcalled and targeted for the scam du jour. Every block I walked, multiple no’s. The interaction exhaustion I experienced after only one hour “out” forced me back to my apartment to recoup. It reminded me of parts of Asia or Istanbul, for slightly different reasons. Third world with a side of being hit on constantly made it tough. The language barrier was the cherry on top. There’s not many creative ways to couch “NO” when you don’t speak the language. And sometimes they don’t listen. Yesterday a guy followed me home for 30 minutes babbling drunkenly while I completely ignored him (full disclosure: I spoke to him for a couple sentences as “nice American”) before starting to completely ignore him. But that’s the problem with going full “feminist at a frat party” NO. I feel vulnerable here. This is not my country. A way I might feel safe communicating in LA, with a full grasp of the English language, a car in clicker shot, my complete bearings of where I am…that doesn’t apply here. So in a way, you put up with it. “Nice American” it is. It’s brought up a lot of internal questions about feminism here. Sometimes I think many of our male-dominant culture issues are American ones. But as I think about it, there’s really not a single place I’ve been, with the exception of maybe Australia and New Zealand, where that’s not an issue. For some reason, I imagine Tokyo might be the same. However, everywhere else I’ve been catcalled, treated as lesser than, touched without permission. Yesterday, even my well-meaning driver touched my leg an awful lot over my virgin Mojito and his Cuba Libre - and I was the one who felt like it would have been impolite to ask him to stop. It’s truly a global issue. And I’ll be honest, in the case of Havana, it’s making me want to jet to Cancun sooner than later, as much as I also love it here. I think being a single woman traveling here is truly not an easy task. Despite all this, yesterday was still fun. I found an old flea market near the Plaza de Armas with loads of precious small things: pins, old books, sentimental trinkets. This was nothing like the tourists markets with maracas, cheap drums, and Club Havana t-shirts. I bought a pin that spoke to me - 1972 Blood Donor - as well as an old 1988 Dave Stewart baseball card. Funny to travel all this way for that! The rest of the day was spent wandering out of old Havana and into other areas on the outskirts. I got caught in a sudden tropical rainstorm and kids emerged from every door in underwear, dancing and yelping. I took refuge in a dark corner of Cafe Miglis and had some meatballs that seemed a million miles from Cuba. I took a wander after the rain died down to the nearby Ocean Wall, the Malecon, where young lovers canoodled and fisherman sat on the wall, kicking, looking for the catch of the day while simultaneously hissing at me with approval. I made my way up to the Hotel Malecon, a grand decaying old Hotel but well worth popping in to spend time in the rolling gardens with a drink or a cigar. I exited the hotel quickly and immediately met Michael, a driver with a pink Chevy who beckoned me to come on a city tour with him. I hadn’t planned on this, but why not. I was tired and could use to take a rest and see some sights. So out we went, past the old University with the broad stairs and broken windows, through Revolution Square, a bleak places with a couple outlined portraits of Che Guevara and Fidel Castro, and up to the somewhat mythical Bosque of Havana. The bosque is a forest right in Miramar, on the outskirts of Havana, and though I cringed a little at parts of it being trashed, it still felt like something out of Avatar. People were even bringing dead things down to the river for a Santeria ceremony. We rolled home through Miramar and after a mojito on the Malecon. I fell into a deep sleep at 8pm and slept for 13 hours, exhausted by the stimulation of it all.

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