#Ian Mòr

[brian-in-finance]

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Remember Outlander’s Ian Mòr Murray, played by Steven Cream?

As opposed to Ian Òg Murray, played by John Belt… 🙃

[boyneriver-fraser]

Outlander Custom Pops by tool8smart on Deviant Art Black Jack Randall Voodoo, random nightmares Ian & Jenny Murray, S1E12 Lallybroch __________ July 17, 2019 #Outlander #Custom Pops #tools8smart #Black Jack Randall Voodoo #Jenny Murray #Ian Mòr #Ian Murray #S1E12 Lallybroch #131 #071719

[whenfrasermetbeauchamp]

I was in the kitchen when I heard him cry out. I had never heard such a sound from him before. Shock and horror were in it, and something else—a note of finality, like the cry of a man who finds himself seized in a tiger’s jaws. I was down the hall and running for the drawing room without conscious thought, a tray of oatcakes still clutched in my hands.

When I burst through the door, I saw him standing by the table where Jenny had laid the mail. His face was dead white, and he swayed slightly where he stood, like a tree cut through, waiting for someone to shout “Timber” before falling.

“What?” I said, scared to death by the look on his face. “Jamie, what? What is it?!”

With a visible effort, he picked up one of the letters on the table and handed it to me.

I set down the oatcakes and took the sheet of paper, scanning it rapidly. It was from Jared; I recognized the thin, scrawly handwriting at once. “ ‘Dear Nephew,’ ” I read to myself, “ ‘…so pleased…words cannot express my admiration…your boldness and courage will be an inspiration…cannot fail of success…my prayers shall be with you…’ ” I looked up from the paper, bewildered. “What on earth is he talking about? What have you done, Jamie?”

The skin was stretched tight across the bones of his face, and he grinned, mirthless as a death’s-head, as he picked up another sheet of paper, this one a cheaply printed handbill.

“It’s not what I’ve done, Sassenach,” he said. The broadsheet was headed by the crest of the Royal House of Stuart. The message beneath was brief, couched in stately language.

It stated that by the ordination of Almighty God, King James, VIII of Scotland and III of England and Ireland asserted herewith his just rights to claim the throne of three kingdoms. And herewith acknowledged the support of these divine rights by the chieftains of the Highland clans, the Jacobite lords, and “various other such loyal subjects of His Majesty, King James, as have subscribed their names upon this Bill of Association in token thereof.”

My fingers grew icy as I read, and I was conscious of a feeling of terror so acute that it was a real effort to keep on breathing. My ears rang with pounding blood, and there were dark spots before my eyes.

At the bottom of the sheet were signed the names of the Scottish chieftains who had declared their loyalty to the world, and staked their lives and reputations on the success of Charles Stuart. Clanranald was there, and Glengarry. Stewart of Appin, Alexander MacDonald of Keppoch, Angus MacDonald of Scotus.

And at the bottom of the list was written, “James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, of Broch Tuarach.”

“Jesus bloody fucking Christ,” I whispered, wishing there were something stronger I could say, as a form of relief. “The filthy bastard’s signed your name to it!”

Jamie, still pale and tight-faced, was beginning to recover.

“Aye, he has,” he said briefly. His hand snaked out for the unopened letter remaining on the table—a heavy vellum, with the Stuart crest showing plainly in the wax seal. Jamie ripped the letter open impatiently, tearing the paper. He read it quickly, then dropped it on the table as though it burned his hands.

“An apology,” he said hoarsely. “For lacking the time to send me the document, in order that I might sign it myself. And his gratitude, for my loyal support. Jesus, Claire! What am I going to do?”

It was a cry from the heart, and one to which I had no answer. I watched helplessly as he sank onto a hassock and sat staring, rigid, at the fire.

Jenny, transfixed by all this drama, moved now to take up the letters and the broadsheet. She read them over carefully, her lips moving slightly as she did so, then set them gently down on the polished tabletop. She looked at them, frowning, then crossed to her brother, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Jamie,” she said. Her face was very pale. “There’s only the one thing ye can do, my dearie. Ye must go and fight for Charles Stuart. Ye must help him win.”

The truth of her words penetrated slowly through the layers of shock that wrapped me. The publication of this Bond of Association branded those who signed it as rebels, and as traitors to the English crown. It didn’t matter now how Charles had managed, or where he had gotten the funds to begin; he was well and truly launched on the seas of rebellion, and Jamie—and I—were launched with him, willy-nilly. There was, as Jenny had said, no choice.

My eye caught Charles’s letter, where it had fallen from Jamie’s hand. “…Though there be manie who tell me I am foolish to embark in this werk without the support of Louis—or at least of his bankes!—I will entertain no notion at all of returning to that place from whence I come,” it read. “Rejoice with me, my deare frend, for I am come Home.”

— Dragonfly In Amber

Photos: Starz, Season Two, Episode Eight, May 28, 2016

Book: Dragonfly In Amber, Diana Gabaldon, 1992

Tumblr: October 4, 2018, WhenFraserMetBeauchamp 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿❤️🇬🇧

WFMB’s Tags: #Outlander #Season Two Episode Eight #S2E8 #The Fox’s Lair #Dragonfly In Amber #Chapter Thirty-Two #The broadsheet was headed by the crest of the Royal House of Stuart #The filthy bastard’s signed your name to it! #Rejoice with me, my deare frend, for I am come Home #Claire Fraser #Jamie Fraser #Murtagh FitzGibbons Fraser #Jenny Murray #Ian Murray #Ian Mòr #102 #100418

[beautifulbizarremagazine]

Congratulations to Kim Anderson on receiving an Honourable Mention in the 2022 Beautiful Bizarre Art Prize, for her work “Engulfed” [Ink, charcoal and pastel on paper, 105x75 cm]. Awarded by Beautiful Bizarre Magazine's Editor-in-Chief Danijela Krha Purssey.

“After completing a Bachelor of Fine Art (Honours) in Australia, I was awarded a scholarship to study a Master of Fine Art at the University of Dundee in Scotland. I have since undertaken many residencies, including an Australia Council Residency at the British School at Rome, at Echigo-Tsumari in Japan, and DRAWinternational in France. Most recently, in 2019 I was the Jon Schueler Fellowship Artist-in-Residence at Sabhal Mòr Ostaig on the Isle of Skye, Scotland. I have received significant grants from the Australia Council, the Ian Potter Cultural Trust and the City of Melbourne, exhibited in solo and group exhibitions around Australia and abroad, and been a finalist in numerous national awards, including the National Works on Paper, the Jacaranda Acquisitive Drawing Award, and the Adelaide Perry Drawing Prize. I am currently represented by Flinders Lane Gallery in Melbourne, and Penny Contemporary in Hobart.”

Get all the information about this year's Beautiful Bizarre Art Prize Winners on https://buff.ly/2J5O3c5 [link in our profile]

—

#beautifulbizarre #beautifulbizarreartprize #artprize #drawing

[thewhiskyphiles]

Whisky New Releases 2017 Week 29

#Whisky New Releases 2017 Week 29 including archive of #rare whisky from closed distilleries!

Whisky New Releases 2017 Week 29

Welcome to The Whiskyphiles New Releases, our weekly report on the best of both the official and independently bottled whisky recently released.

Our top picks this week are out of our Closed Distillery focus and include:

Imperial 27 Year Old 1989 (cask 2892) – Celebration of the Cask (Càrn Mòr)

Glen Albyn 26 Year Old 1975

North Port 24 Year Old 1981 – Rarest of…

[whenfrasermetbeauchamp]

Jenny recovered rapidly after Margaret’s birth, insisting on coming downstairs the day following the delivery. At the combined insistence of Ian and Jamie, she reluctantly refrained from doing any work, only supervising from the sofa in the parlor where she reclined, baby Margaret sleeping in her cradle alongside.

Not content to sit idle, though, within a day or two she had ventured as far as the kitchen, and then the back garden. Sitting on the wall, the well-wrapped baby in a carrying sling, she was keeping me company as I simultaneously pulled dead vines and kept an eye on the enormous cauldron in which the household’s laundry was boiled. Mrs. Crook and the maids had already removed the clean wash to be hung and dried; now I was waiting for the water to cool sufficiently to be dumped out.

Small Jamie was “helping” me, yanking out plants with mad abandon and flinging bits of stick in all directions. I called a warning as he ventured too near the cauldron, then raced after him as he ignored me. Luckily the pot had cooled quickly; the water was no more than warm. Warning him to keep back with his mother, I grasped the pot and tilted it away from the iron contrivance that held it and kept it from falling.

I sprang back out of the way as the dirty water cascaded over the lip of the pot, steaming in the chilly air. Young Jamie, squatting beside me on his heels, splatted his hands joyfully in the warm mud, and black droplets flew all over my skirts.

His mother slid down from the wall, yanked him up by the collar and dealt him a smart clout on the backside.

“Have ye no sense, gille? Look at ye! There’s your shirt’ll have to go and be washed again! And look what ye’ve done to your auntie’s skirt, ye wee heathen!”

“It doesn’t matter,” I protested, seeing the miscreant’s lower lip quiver.

“Weel, it matters to me,” said Jenny, giving her offspring the benefit of a gimlet eye. “Say ‘sorry’ to your auntie, laddie, then get ye into the house and have Mrs. Crook give ye a bit of a wash.” She patted his bottom, gently this time, and gave him a push in the direction of the house.

We were turning back to the mass of sodden clothes, when the sound of hoofbeats came from the road.

“That’ll be Jamie back, I expect,” I said, listening. “He’s early, though.”

Jenny shook her head, peering intently toward the road. “Not his horse.”

The horse, when it appeared at the crest of a hill, was not one she knew, to judge from her frown. The man aboard, though, was no stranger. She stiffened beside me, then began to run toward the gate, wrapping both arms around the baby to hold it steady.

“It’s Ian!” she called to me.

He was tattered and dusty and bruised about the face, as he slid off his horse. One bruise on his forehead was swollen, with a nasty split that went through the eyebrow. Jenny caught him under the arm as he hit the ground, and it was only then I saw that his wooden leg was gone.

“Jamie,” he gasped. “We met the Watch near the mill. Waiting for us. They knew we were coming.”

My stomach lurched. “Is he alive?”

He nodded, panting for breath. “Aye. Not wounded, either. They took him to the west, toward Killin.”

Jenny’s fingers were exploring his face.

“Are ye bad hurt, man?”

He shook his head. “No. They took my horse and my leg; they didna need to kill me to stop me following.”

Jenny glanced at the horizon, where the sun lay just above the trees. Maybe four o’clock, I estimated. Ian followed her gaze and anticipated her question.

“We met them near midday. It took me over two hours to get to a place that had a horse.”

She stood still, for a moment, calculating, then turned to me with decision.

“Claire. Help Ian to the house, will ye, and if he needs aught in the way of doctoring, do it as fast as ye can. I’ll give the babe to Mrs. Crook and fetch the horses.”

She was gone before either of us could protest.

“Does she mean…but she can’t!” I exclaimed. “She can’t mean to leave the baby!”

Ian was leaning heavily on my shoulder as we made our way slowly up the path to the house. He shook his head.

“Maybe not. But I dinna think she means to let the English hang her brother, either.”

— Outlander/Cross Stitch

Photos: Starz, Season One, Episode Thirteen, May 2, 2015

Book: Outlander (Cross Stitch), Diana Gabaldon, 1991

Tumblr: September 21, 2018, WhenFraserMetBeauchamp 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿❤️🇬🇧

WFMB’s Tags: #Outlander #Season One Episode Thirteen #S1E13 #The Watch #Outlander/Cross Stitch #Chapter Thirty-Three #look what ye’ve done to your auntie’s skirt, ye wee heathen! #I dinna think she means to let the English hang her brother #Claire Fraser #Jamie Fraser #Jenny Murray #Ian Murray #Ian Mòr #64 #092118

[whenfrasermetbeauchamp]

Broch Tuarach means “the north-facing tower.” From the side of the mountain above, the broch that gave the small estate its name was no more than another mound of rocks, much like those that lay at the foot of the hills we had been traveling through.

We came down through a narrow, rocky gap between two crags, leading the horse between boulders. Then the going was easier, the land sloping more gently down through the fields and scattered cottages, until at last we struck a small winding road that led to the house.

It was larger than I had expected; a handsome three-story manor of harled white stone, windows outlined in the natural grey stone, a high slate roof with multiple chimneys, and several smaller whitewashed buildings clustered about it, like chicks about a hen. The old stone broch, situated on a small rise to the rear of the house, rose sixty feet above the ground, cone-topped like a witch’s hat, girdled with three rows of tiny arrow-slits.

…

“Should we knock?” I asked, a bit nervous. He looked at me in astonishment.

“It’s my home,” he said, and pushed the door open.

He led me through the house, ignoring the few startled servants we passed, past the entrance hall and through a small gun room, into the drawing room. It boasted a wide hearth with a polished mantel, and bits of silver and glass gleamed here and there, capturing the late-afternoon sun. For a moment, I thought the room was empty. Then I saw a faint movement in one corner near the hearth.

She was smaller than I had expected. With a brother like Jamie, I had imagined her at least my height, or even taller, but the woman by the fire barely reached five feet. Her back was to us as she reached for something on the shelf of the china cabinet, and the ends of her dress sash dipped close to the floor.

Jamie froze when he saw her.

“Jenny,” he said.

The woman turned and I caught an impression of brows black as ink-squills, and blue eyes wide in a white face before she launched herself at her brother.

“Jamie!” Small as she was, she jarred him with the impact of her embrace. His arms went about her shoulders in reflex and they clung for a moment, her face tight against his shirtfront, his hand tender on the nape of her neck. On his face was an expression of such mingled uncertainty and yearning joy that I felt almost an intruder.

Then she pressed herself closer to him, murmuring something in Gaelic, and his expression dissolved in shock. He grasped her by the arms and held her away from him, looking down.

The faces were much alike; the same oddly slanted dark blue eyes and broad cheekbones. The same thin, blade-bridged nose, just a trifle too long. But she was dark where Jamie was fair, with cascades of black curly hair, bound back with green ribbon.

She was beautiful, with clear-drawn features and alabaster skin. She was also clearly in a state of advanced pregnancy.

Jamie had gone white at the lips. “Jenny,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Oh, Jenny. Mo cridh.”

Her attention was distracted just then by the appearance of a small child in the doorway, and she pulled away from her brother without noticing his discomposure. She took the little boy’s hand and led him into the room, murmuring encouragement. He hung back a little, thumb in mouth for comfort, peering up at the strangers from behind his mother’s skirts.

For his mother she plainly was. He had her mop of thick, curly black hair and the square set of her shoulders, though the face was not hers.

“This is wee Jamie,” she said, looking proudly down at the lad. “And this is your uncle Jamie, mo cridh, the one you’re named for.”

“For me? You named him for me?” Jamie looked like a fighter who has just been punched very hard in the stomach. He backed away from mother and child until he blundered into a chair, and sank into it as though the strength had gone from his legs. He hid his face in his hands.

His sister by this time was aware that something was amiss. She touched him tentatively on the shoulder.

“Jamie? What is it, my dearie? Are ye ill?”

He looked up at her then, and I could see his eyes were full of tears.

“Did ye have to do that, Jenny? Do ye think that I’ve not suffered enough for what happened—for what I let happen—that ye must name Randall’s bastard for me, to be a reproach to me so long as I live?”

Jenny’s face, normally pale, lost all vestiges of color.

“Randall’s bastard?” she said blankly. “John Randall, ye mean? The Redcoat captain?”

“Aye, the Redcoat captain. Who else would I mean, for God’s sake! You’ll remember him, I suppose?” Jamie was recovering enough of his customary poise for sarcasm.

Jenny eyed her brother closely, one arched brow lifted in suspicion.

“Have ye lost your senses, man?” she inquired. “Or have ye taken a drop too much along the way?”

“I should never have come back,” he muttered. He rose then, stumbling slightly and tried to pass without touching her. She stood her ground, however, and gripped him by the arm.

“Correct me, brother, if I’m wrong,” Jenny said slowly, “but I’ve the strong impression you’re saying I’ve played the whore to Captain Randall, and what I’m askin’ myself is what maggots you’ve got in your brain to make ye say so?”

“Maggots, is it?” Jamie turned to her, mouth twisted with bitterness. “I wish it were so; I’d rather I was dead and in my grave than to see my sister brought to such a pass.” He seized her by the shoulders, and shook her slightly, crying out, “Why, Jenny, why? To have ye ruin yourself for me was shame enough to kill me. But this…” He dropped his hands then, with a gesture of despair that took in the protruding belly, swelling accusingly under the light smocking.

He turned abruptly toward the door, and an elderly woman, who had been listening avidly with the child clinging to her skirts, drew back in alarm.

“I should not have come. I’ll go.”

…

 She eyed her brother, standing at the window with his legs braced wide apart, hands on the sill and back stubbornly set against her. She bit her lip and a calculating look came over her face. Quick as lightning, she stooped and her hand shot under his kilt like a striking snake.

Jamie let out a roar of sheer outrage and stood bolt upright with shock. He tried to turn, then froze as she apparently tightened her grip.

“There’s men as are sensible,” she said to me, with a wicked smile, “and beasts as are biddable. Others ye’ll do nothing with, unless ye have ’em by the ballocks. Now, ye can listen to me in a civil way,” she said to her brother, “or I can twist a bit. Hey?”

He stood still, red-faced, breathing heavily through clenched teeth. “I’ll listen,” he said, “and then I’ll wring your wee neck, Janet! Let me go!”

No sooner did she oblige than he whirled on her.

“What in hell d’ye think you’re doing?” he demanded. “Tryin’ to shame me before my own wife?” Jenny was not fazed by his outrage. She rocked back on her heels, viewing her brother and me sardonically.

“Weel, and if she’s your wife, I expect she’s more familiar wi’ your balls than what I am. I havena seen them myself since ye got old enough to wash alone. Grown a bit, no?”

— Outlander/Cross Stitch

Gif: fangirlish.com (Claire, Jamie, Donas)

Photos: Starz, Season One, Episode Twelve, April 25, 2015

Photo: tvfeels.com (Lallybroch) 

Gif: smartbitchestrashybooks.com (Jenny & Jamie)

Book: Outlander (Cross Stitch), Diana Gabaldon, 1991

Tumblr: September 20, 2018, WhenFraserMetBeauchamp 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿❤️🇬🇧

WFMB’s Tags: #Outlander #Season One Episode Twelve #S1E12 #Lallybroch #Outlander/Cross Stitch #Chapter Twenty-Six #Broch Tuarach means “the north-facing tower” #Correct me, brother, if I’m wrong #Claire Fraser #Jamie Fraser #Donas #Jenny Murray #Ian Murray #Ian Mòr #Jamie Murray #Wee Jamie #Jamie Òg #Young Jamie #61 #092018

[whenfrasermetbeauchamp]

Usually a busy place, on Quarter Day the manor house simply bristled with activity. Tenants came and went all day. Many came only long enough to pay their rents; some stayed all day, wandering about the estate, visiting with friends, taking refreshment in the parlor. Jenny, blooming in blue silk, and Mrs. Crook, starched in white linen, flitted back and forth between kitchen and parlor, overseeing the two maidservants, who staggered to and fro under enormous platters of oatcake, fruitcake, “crumbly,” and other sweets.

Jamie, having introduced me with ceremony to the tenants present in dining room and parlor, then retired into his study with Ian, to receive the tenants singly, to confer with them over the needs of the spring planting, to consult over the sale of wool and grain, to note the activities of the estate, and to set things in order for the next quarter of the year.

I puttered cheerfully about the place, visiting with tenants, lending a hand with the refreshments when needed, sometimes just drifting into the background to watch the comings and goings.

Recalling Jamie’s promise to the old woman by the millpond, I waited with some curiosity for the arrival of Ronald MacNab.

He came shortly past noon, riding a tall, slip-jointed mule, with a small boy clinging to his belt behind. I viewed them covertly from the parlor door, wondering just how accurate his mother’s assessment had been.

I decided that while “drunken sot” might be overstating things slightly, Grannie MacNab’s general perceptions were acute. Ronald MacNab’s hair was long and greasy, carelessly tied back with twine, and his collar and cuffs were grey with dirt. While surely a year or two younger than Jamie, he looked at least fifteen years older, the bones of his face submerged in bloat, small grey eyes dulled and bloodshot.

As for the child, he also was scruffy and dirty. Worse, so far as I was concerned, he slunk along behind his father, keeping his eyes on the floor, cringing when Ronald turned and spoke sharply to him. Jamie, who had come to the door of his study, saw it too, and I saw him exchange a sharp look with Jenny, bringing a fresh decanter in answer to his call.

She nodded imperceptibly and handed over the decanter. Then, taking the child firmly by the hand, she towed him toward the kitchen, saying, “Come along wi’ me now, laddie. I believe we’ve a crumbly or two going wantin’. Or what about a slice of fruitcake?”

Jamie nodded formally to Ronald MacNab, standing aside as the man went into the study. Reaching out to shut the door, Jamie caught my eye and nodded toward the kitchen. I nodded back and turned to follow Jenny and young Rabbie.

I found them engaged in pleasant converse with Mrs. Crook, who was ladling punch from the big cauldron into a crystal bowl. She tipped a bit into a wooden cup and offered it to the lad, who hung back, eyeing her suspiciously, before finally accepting it. Jenny went on chatting casually to the lad as she loaded platters, receiving little more than grunts in return. Still, the half-wild little creature seemed to be relaxing a bit.

“Your sark’s a bit grubby, lad,” she observed, leaning forward to turn back the collar. “Take it off, and I’ll give it a bit of a wash before ye go.” “Grubby” was a gross understatement, but the boy pulled back defensively. I was behind him, though, and at a gesture from Jenny, grabbed him by the arms before he could dart away.

He kicked and yowled, but Jenny and Mrs. Crook closed in on him as well, and between the three of us, we peeled the filthy shirt off his back.

“Ah.” Jenny drew in her breath sharply. She was holding the boy’s head firmly under one arm, and the scrawny back was fully exposed. Welts and scabs scored the flesh on either side of the knobby backbone, some freshly healed, some so old as to be only faded shadows lapping the prominent ribs. Jenny took a good grip on the back of the boy’s neck, speaking soothingly to him as she released his head. She jerked her head in the direction of the hall, looking at me.

“You’d better tell him.”

I knocked tentatively at the study door, holding a plate of honeyed oatcakes as excuse. At Jamie’s muffled bidding, I opened the door and went in.

My face as I served MacNab must have been sufficient, for I didn’t have to ask to speak privately with Jamie. He stared meditatively at me for a moment, then turned back to his tenant.

“Well then, Ronnie, that will do for the grain allotment. There’s the one other thing I meant to speak wi’ you about, though. You’ve a likely lad named Rabbie, I understand, and I’m needing a boy of that size to help in the stables. Would ye be willing for him to come?” Jamie’s long fingers played with a goosequill on the desk. Ian, seated at a smaller table to one side, propped his chin on his fists, staring at MacNab with frank interest.

MacNab glowered belligerently. I thought he had the irritable resentment of a man who isn’t drunk but wishes he were.

“No, I’ve need of the lad,” he said curtly.

“Mm.” Jamie lounged back in his chair, hands folded across his middle. “I’d pay ye for his services, of course.”

— Outlander/Cross Stitch

Photos: Starz, Season One, Episode Twelve, April 25, 2015

Photo: outlander.wikia.com (Rabbie) 

Photo: pinterest.com (Outlander trading card)

Book: Outlander (Cross Stitch), Diana Gabaldon, 1991

Tumblr: September 20, 2018, WhenFraserMetBeauchamp 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿❤️🇬🇧

WFMB’s Tags: #Outlander #Season One Episode Twelve #S1E12 #Lallybroch #Outlander/Cross Stitch #Chapter Thirty-One #on Quarter Day the manor house simply bristled with activity #”Grubby” was a gross understatement #Claire Fraser #Jamie Fraser #Ian Murray #Ian Mòr #Ronald MacNab #Rabbie MacNab #62 #092018

[brian-in-finance]

Outlander cast

Maril Davis - Executive Producer

Andrew Gower - Bonnie Prince Charles Stuart

Steven Cree - Ian Mòr Murray

Alastair Findlay - Duncan Innes

Hugh Ross - Arch Bug

Sarah Collier - Murdina Bug

Sophie Skelton - Brianna MacKenzie

Richard Rankin - Roger MacKenzie

Sam Heughan - Jamie Fraser

All photos from Getty Images

Remember the familiar faces?

[boyneriver-fraser]

What’s in a name? What might have inspired Outlander’s episode titles?

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (book, excerpt), Lewis Carroll, 1865

Chapter 1 Down The Rabbit Hole

Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, “and what is the use of a book,” thought Alice “without pictures or conversations?”

So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her.

There was nothing so very remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so very much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!” (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge.

In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.

@strandtk

Photo: Starz

Gif: @thegirlwiththecoffintattoo

Gif: @scotsmanandsassenach

Gif: @saracamerons

Gif: @scotsmanandsassenach

Gif: @apparentlyalise

Gif: @contemplatingoutlander

S4E7 Down The Rabbit Hole

Title Image: @knightlyss

#Outlander #Episode Title #Inspiration #Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland #Lewis Carroll #Drums Of Autumn #DOA #S4E7 Down The Rabbit Hole #Brianna MacKenzie #Roger MacKenzie #Frank Randall #Ian Murray #Ian Mòr #Laoghaire MacKenzie #Fiona Graham #Joan MacKimmie #Too Much Of Frank #230 #080421

[boyneriver-fraser]

Ho! The house! 🗣

When I grow up, I want a personalized guided tour of the Big House on Fraser’s Ridge

The moment the last tenant hangs up his tool belt, I want to walk back and forth through that breezeway. Peek into every cupboard. Climb every stair. Rootle through every cubbyhole. Jump on every bed. There is so much to see, and touch, and smell… and I want to DO IT ALL!

Thoughts & Observations: S5E3 Free Will

Marsali is already proving to be the perfect apprentice. She’s motivated, inquisitive, intelligent, detail-oriented, logical, and curious about all sorts of new-fangled ideas and things there in Boston. Just wait till she tastes those cream pies.

Claire’s voiceover almost needs a Dun Dun Dun… soundtrack. Let’s hope she dares history with caution, and the copy of Dr. Rawlings’ Recommendations Fergus delivers to the printer doesn’t include scrawls and doodles of anything too new-fangled.

Really like the Jamie Payne (director) – Luke Schelhass (writer) combo! 😃

No doubt many people echoed Jamie’s Deo gratius when they realized we were being treated to a JamieClaire-centric episode. It worked well for me, but so did Between Two Fires. I find each of Jamie and Claire compelling on their own, pursing their individual interests and causes. I also like seeing their relationships with other characters. Call me kooky.

Callback #1: This one takes place in a kind of Upside Down. Remember S4E5 Savages, when Jamie returned to the Ridge from Woolam’s Creek, happy after discovering #MurtaghSaved? A shotgun-armed Claire was unable to sleep after the tragedies of Petronella’s and her baby’s measle deaths and Adawehi’s murder.

In Free Will, Jamie returns to the Ridge from Hillsborough, stunned by the Regulators’ tarring and feathering and by Lieutenant Knox’s murdering Ethan MacKinnon, and anxious about needing to form a militia. Despite missing Jamie while he’s away, Claire’s work on the Ridge and interaction with her children and grandchildren satisfies her and allows her to sleep soundly.

Fergus takes a mean shorthand! 🖌

We hear the first of many “Roger Mac(s)” to come.

“We’ll be taking yer whisky with us to share with the men. The finest I’ve tasted since leaving Scotland.” Fergus Claudel Fraser: Official Distiller of Fraser’s Ridge (I love this adaptation! I don’t think I mentioned in my The Fiery Cross episode review how much I loved Jamie’s calling Fergus to stand by his hand. Fergus, like Young Ian, is a man of worth.)

⚠️ Murtz Alert ⚠️ Oops… False alarm… 🙁 Fraser’s Ridge workforce includes a lot of silver-haired, ponytail-wearing tenants. 🤷🏻‍♀️

“Mr. Trouble” 😂 Too bad wee Robin Scott, who plays Germain, would be too young to attend most of the cast’s social outings. He would be the life of the party. 🎉

Does Marsali need Brianna’s help with reading because medical books are advanced academics and Brianna holds a degree from M.I.T, or because Laoghaire dropped the ball and didn’t educate her daughters? It’s safe to say Laoghaire didn’t encourage them to read anything that sat on a witch’s bookshelf.

Callback #2: The JamieClaire-on-horseback-led convoy’s leaving Fraser’s Ridge took me back to S2E8 The Fox’s Lair and E9 Je Suis Prest. Did you notice the pecking order? 1: Colonel & Physician. 2: Captain. 3: Official Distiller. Priorities are important, during times of peace and of war.

So… Stephen Bonnet’s free from incarceration, and recently sighted in Wilmington? How far is Wilmington from Fraser’s Ridge? Does it matter almost every fit and young man, almost every weapon, and the only doctor are on the road to Brownsville, while Bonnet’s purported child and the child’s mother are back with the not-so-fit-nor-young-nor-armed men on Fraser’s Ridge? I suppose it doesn’t, since the mother herself knows Bonnet could be consulting a map and stealing a horse as we speak. I somehow doubt her husband and named father of her child would agree… if he only knew.

Callback #3: Colonel Jamie tells Captain Roger there’s no time to train the militia, so he’ll teach them to fight like Highlanders, to gather and scatter on his command. Can you say Dougal MacKenzie in S2E9 Je Suis Prest? Sure. I knew you could.

Thank goodness for Closed Captioning. Growing up immersed in Scots (language, accents, people), I rarely “huh?” during Outlander, but I have no ear for Welsh, and John Quincy Myers keeps my clicking that CC button. And his lines are so worth understanding! 😂

Callback #4: The fireside banter and guy-talk, with Claire’s being the only participant without a Y chromosome, takes me back to S1E5 Rent. Good times.

We’re slowly adding to the books’ Fraser’s Ridge roster.  We already know Isaiah Morton and Ronnie Sinclair. Around the fire we meet brothers Evan and Kenny Lindsay, and Geordie Chisholm. Isaiah Morton on his way to Brownsville? What could go wrong?

Speaking of books, so much of Fireside Chat reminded me of The Fiery Cross, right down to Jamie’s not needing to worry whether his feet or his hair might burn in order to sleep “warm.” Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Say no more. 

I am very impressed with Paul Gorman’s playing the Beardsley twins, and duly impressed with his characters’ appearing onscreen at the same time. Well done! BUT… the BEST part of the entire Twins Story introduction was the explanation for Keziah’s missing britches. 😻

You’re lucky, Lizzie Wemyss, I’m completely committed to Murtz, because any man who would forgo his pants to keep kittens warm is my kind of man. ❤️

I wonder if Father Fogden ever missed his mirror?

I couldn’t begin to imagine those young men’s lives. Orphaned at two, with four sisters dead at sea. Sold on a 30-year term, starved, beaten, deafened… and made to sleep in a barn that is too cold for goats.

Josiah isn’t going to avoid Claire’s scary looking medical tools for long if he keeps drawing attention to his sore throat. Owie!

More book people, People: Joan, Hugh, and Iain Òg Findlay. In The Fiery Cross Roger also meets with Iain Mòr, Joan’s brother and head of the family.

Two years, three months, and five days…

It’s probably the meds, but when Fanny Beardsley slams the door in Jamie’s face, I imagined her turning to the goats and saying, “I told ‘im we got already got one.”

I’m thankful my TV’s Smell-o-Vision™ is out of order. Brianna, oh she who could not tolerate an autopsied torso, is thankful she skipped this road trip all together.

The direction, lighting, special effects, makeup, and prosthetics are excellent in this part of the episode and Mr. McCreary has outdone himself with the soundtrack. Truly a House of Horrors, Chez Beardsley.

“None of us could give him a baby.” Um, I hate to break it to you, Aaron, but I suspect it’s your problem, not any of your five wives’.

Brit Bronwyn James gives Baltimore Fanny a decent generic American accent.

Poor Jamie! He knows the pain of sending Claire back through the stones. Contemplating sending his beloved daughter and grandson, and tolerated son-in-law, is too much. 😖

Poor Fanny! To live as she has for two years, three months, and five days with that “wretch,” and awaken to see Jamie and Claire’s spooning, peacefully sleeping in her living room. I’d sneak off in the dead of night, too.

My grand-père went to Hillsborough and all I got was a wagon full of goats. 🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐

“I’ll do what must be done.” No foreshadowing, thank you very much. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser has suffered enough.

__________

March 2, 2020

Photo: Starz, Screenshots: @boyneriver-fraser​ Jon Gary Steele Twitter, W Network/Global TV app, Gifs: @abreathofsnowandwaffles​ (1 & 2), @jemscorner​ (3), @avasetocallmyown​ (4), @grantcary​ (5), @mistress-gif​ (6 & 7)

#Outlander #Personal #Review #The Fiery Cross #S5E3 Free Will #Claire Fraser #Jamie Fraser #Roger MacKenzie #Fergus Claudel Fraser #Geordie Chisholm #Adso #Mama ComfyPants & The Kittens #193 #030220

[boyneriver-fraser]

It was the best of times...

it was the worst of times...

and all over social media we’re talking about it.

We share opinions about the books.

We share opinions about the author.

We share opinions about the show.

We share opinions about production.

We share opinions about promotion.

We share opinions about characters.

We share opinions about storylines.

We share opinions about casting.

We share opinions about acting.

We share opinions about quality, season-over-season.

We share opinions about actors’ real lives.

We share opinions about shipping Caitriona with Sam.

We share opinions about off-screen narratives.

We share opinions about fandom factions.

We share opinions about fans.

We share opinions about HOW to fan.

We share opinions about the show’s future.

Love it. Hate it. Wish you’d never heard of it. WE’RE ALL TALKING ABOUT OUTLANDER.

It’s almost like they know. 

Gifs: @scotsmanandsassenach @themusicsweetly Photos: outlander-online.com variety.com gifeed.com/starz start.att.net/exclusive/uverse/premiums/starz

December 17, 2018

#Outlander #Starz #Obsessable #Truth #S5 & S6 will happen #Mark me #Sophie was FABULOUS! #I really liked The Search 😬 #I like Rik Rankin too 😜 #Claire&Jamie, Shmaire&Shmamie. Where was Murtz?! 😢 #Diana IS still a consultant on the show #It’s okay to disagree #It’s not okay to be mean #TV #10 points if you got that one #Dinna fash, Cait and Sam are still friends 😎 #I ❤️ Outlander #Books and show #They’re not perfect #Me too! Me too! #🍻 #Drums Of Autumn #S4E7 #Down The Rabbit Hole #Claire Fraser #Jamie Fraser #Laoghaire MacKenzie #Ian Murray #Ian Mòr #Brianna Randall #Brianna Fraser #Brianna MacKenzie #31 #121718