#South Meadows Road

[mothmiso]

Moravia '23 (2) (3) (4) by Adam Smok

[thorsenmark]

Along Main Street and a Look to the Pacific Ocean by Mark Stevens Via Flickr: While at a stop for shopping at Mendocino Jams & Preserves with a view looking to the south across Mendocino Bay. My thinking in composing this image was to capture a balanced, leveled-on setting. There would be a little patch of the grassy meadow to my immediate front below the ocean waters. Other portions of the southern coastline would be a distant landscape before the horizon. There were mostly cloudy skies off in the distance. I did some initial post-processing work making adjustments to contrast, brightness and saturation in DxO PhotoLab 5. I then exported a TIFF image to Nik Color Efex Pro 4 where I added a Polarization, Skylight, and Pro Contrast filter for that last effect on the image captured.

[inktr3pid]

Wander

[brigadeproperties]

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[pricegouge]

the welly boot incident, a silly little meet cute inspired entirely by this post here cause i'm an absolute slut for the swamp thing look.

pricegaz x fem!reader one shot. A little bit of subspace as a treat but nothing explicit. Still mdni please

"Brassard, what the hell am I looking at?"

It's been a shit job from the start. Bad contractor, bad intel, bad campaign all around. John supposes he can only be happy that for once in his life, the quality of intel seems to be off in the 'right' direction - which is to say he'd rather be posted up in a field for hours with too much manpower than not enough. He's got Gaz on his right, deadly still and silent despite being hours past projected time of contact with no sign of the target. Price is spotting, growing more irritable by the minute. There's supposed to be a watch up on the south ridge to announce any incoming traffic - op related or otherwise - but the sudden arrival of one garishly dressed civilian meandering through the meadow toting a Hubble sized macro lens seems to suggest that while eight hours of fruitless vigilance may not test the most seasoned of soldiers, it is enough to beat the handlers hired to assist them. 

The silence on the comms grows long enough to get even Gaz squirming, a subtle rotation of his boot the first move he's made in hours. In his ghillie, the movement is swallowed by the shifting of grass in the wind.

"Brassard?" Price growls, inspecting this newcomer through his scope for potential threats. She certainly looks unassuming enough, as he's never known any faction of armed services to issue woven fuschia caps, long purple cardigans, or yellow welly boots. Still, confirmation on anything useful like 'where the fuck she came from,' 'was she driving a civilian car?', or 'should we take the fucking shot?' would be ideal.

"Cap?" Garrick's voice is low, smothered, cheek sealed against his rifle even after all these hours. Still lethal and ready to trust his captain's call.

John waits another beat, hoping for some forthcoming intel. Doesn't get any. "No."

"She's gonna blow our spot."

'Against who?' John wants to ask, but the question of where their overwatch disappeared to is a toss up, and while every hard-won instinct in his body tells him this whole mission is a bust and the man likely fell asleep, the paranoid option must always outweigh the most likely if one wants to see the next sunrise, and it's entirely possible the man was eliminated. 

"Well, shooting her won't make her any less hi-vis," Price sighs. Abandoning his lens, John raises his head enough to take in the whole scope of the meadow. They're posted on a small hill, sights trained down into the shallow basin where a derelict road ambles parallel a small brook, currently overflowing with springtime runoff. It's beautiful, really, dotted here and there with early blooms which nod in the gentle breeze. With the low ridge to the south simultaneously blocking most of the sun's glare and offering a great position for extra coverage, the area had presented itself first and foremost to him as a sniper's delight; but faced now with an artsy-type civilian wandering around and looking for all intents and purposes to be in her natural element, he supposes his assessment probably laid outside the norm.

"We could use her like dazzle camo," Gaz suggests instead and John's mustache twitches with a suppressed snort. It's almost tempting, except if the target does ever drive through, John doesn't trust him to simply be confused and gape at the spectacle uselessly.

John drums his fingers off the dirt irritably, returns to his scope to see if he can pick out where their backup is situated. "Shit," he hisses, taking in Brassard's limp form up on the ridge.

"Dead?" Gaz asks, voice returning to the low hum that tells Price he's slipping back into professionalism.

"Looks like," John confirms, disassembling his tripod. 

"We retreating?"

"'Course not. We're containing the civilian." Beginning to crawl forward, John spots Gaz break his scope seal for the first time since establishing it out of the corner of his eye. 

"How?"

"Physically."

***

You never even see them coming. One minute you're humming to yourself as you stage a close up of a bee and the next you're squawking and thrashing while being pulled to the ground by your ankle. Before you can even make sense of what's happened, a man settles his considerable weight onto you and clamps a hand over your mouth. "Easy," he murmurs into your ear as a mass of twigs and grease paint pulls up next to him. "Not gonna hurt ya, darlin'."

You only realize how hard you're shaking when the man next to you starts setting up a tripod and the kind of gun you've only ever seen in movies and your teeth rattle behind the calloused grip that covers them.

There's a hand on your head, palm flat and heavy as it pulls your hat off. The weight above you shifts, hips digging briefly into your ass as he moves to pocket your cap. It's slow, movements steady and calculated as the voice that continues in your ear. "I'm Captain John Price. This is my sergeant, Kyle Garrick, and unfortunately you've found yourself in a bit of a pickle."

Next to you, the man with the gun - Kyle - spares a small, commiserating smile. It does not calm you.

"If I take my hand off your mouth, you gonna stay quiet?"

You're nodding before you can even think it through, surprising yourself when your new found freedom only draws rapid pants from you instead of screams for help. 

"There's a good girl," John rumbles, lips still pressed close to your ear. His voice is low like oncoming thunder, and despite yourself, the next shudder that racks your body isn't entirely fear based. He's got a mustache of some sort, bristles soft where they press against the shell of your ear. You were set up for failure, really.

"Can you get off me?" You mean it to sound pricklier, blame it on all the hyperventilating when your voice comes out breathy.

John huffs, breath warm as it fans down your neck. He's wearing some sort of armored vest from the feel of it, but you can still feel the abs of his lower belly jump with his laughter. "What's your name, darlin'?" You don't answer him at first, still weighing whether or not you believe him. "How 'bout 'flower', hm? Look like one out here in all these colors."

"A buttercup, in those wellies," Kyle agrees and you side eye him, for the first time noticing how upsettingly handsome he is under all that grease paint. Full, pretty lips and the kind of big soft cow eyes that always turn you to putty. If you find out the man on top of you is also handsome, you're toast.

"Right, those bloody boots." John's weight shifts off you a bit and you try to scramble forward. You make it maybe an inch before he plants a wide palm on your back and pushes you back to the ground. "Hold still, flower," he rumbles and you're helpless but to comply as he kicks at your boots with his own. You ask why he's stripping you but he ignores the question, reaching back to snatch up your discarded shoes instead. "Clear?" he asks, and Kyle takes a minute to swing his scope around.

"Far as I can tell."

And then John tosses your boots into the nearby brook with an unceremonious plop.

"Hey!" you gripe, only to be silenced by John's hand clamped over your mouth again. 

His voice is sterner now when he speaks, the low murmuring from before replaced with a harsh grumble. "Hush now petal, we have to be quiet. Look at me, yeah?"

You regret it the second you do. Like Kyle, John's covered in leaves and debris and greasepaint. His eyes glint menacingly from the depths of the shadow cast by his low brim, his chops a thatch of hair only distinguishable from the mass of brush that covers him by the fact it's too well-kept. He looks like a swamp thing. He looks like the earth itself come to swallow you whole.

"I'm gonna take my hand away now, but you're going to be a good little flower and stay quiet, yeah?" You nod. His grip is so strong on your jaw that you drag his hand along with you. When he calls you a good girl this time, you can't help but melt into the grass beneath you. John seems to take your laxness for acceptance of your situation and he squeezes the nape of your neck when he pulls his hand away to set about erecting some sort of tiny telescope. He murmurs to you as he works, voice gone back to the quiet, calming rumble from before. 

"I can't get off you because you're not wearing appropriately camouflaged clothes. Even if I were to strip you of this fucking cardi, you'd still stand out like a sore thumb. That's why the wellies had to go in the stream. No good place to hide 'em." You frown back toward the brook, watch as one of your shoes goes bobbing along out of sight. The other probably sank already.

"My car's too far away to walk barefoot."

"I'll carry you," John suggests casually. He's got his little scope established now and when he lowers his eye to it, his cheek sits flush against yours. "This position is shite," he grumbles.

Kyle hums in agreement. When he speaks, his voice is teasing. "We could carry petal here back up on the hill."

"Watch it," John warns. Kyle doesn't so much as smirk. Their talk turns mostly technical after that, muttering about degrees and cardinal directions, calculating inclines. You let it wash over you in favor of contemplating your predicament. 

You trust they're military, at least. Kinda hard to fake the funk to this extent. That fact doesn't necessarily soothe you, but knowing this about them is at least better than knowing nothing about them. You suppose it doesn't matter either way though, as there's not a whole lot you can do to get yourself out of here if the way John bears down on you every time you try to wriggle out is any indication. Sometimes he breathes soothing words against your cheek. Most times, he just ignores you.

They slip into silence eventually, which makes the long, boring minutes drag even worse. You know enough to figure this is a sniper mission which means it's possible you'll be here a while, but that doesn't make you physically prepared for it. You check the positioning of the sun from time to time, but frown when you find it unchanged. You tell yourself it's only because you don't actually know how to gauge time like this.

You crack after what feels like an hour but is probably only fifteen minutes. "What are you guys supposed to be doing here, anyway?"

"Classified." John's eye is still glued to his scope, barely giving you the time of day. 

Should've figured. "Aren't I going to see it unfold anyway?"

"Might not." You're not quite sure what that means, but something about the tone makes you nervous.

"Are we gonna be here all day?"

"Hot date?" Kyle's also still glued to his scope, but something about his tone is less dismissive so you latch on.

"Yes, actually."

Finally, a break from contact as John pulls away from his scope to look at you. There's a spot of paint missing just above the trim line of his beard and your stomach flips in guilty excitement when you realize it might have transferred to your skin. Of course he ruins it, "In a fuschia cap?"

"I'll have you know I made that cap," you squawk and John only needs to twitch his mustache at you to get you to shut up. He may also raise a brow. Hard to tell under the low angle of his brim.

It's Kyle who apologizes. "It's a lovely hat, flower."

John grumbles while you thank his friend, returns to his scope as he mutters about it still not being good date attire.

"I was going to change first." You're not sure why you care what either of them think of your date outfit, but you do what the record to show you're capable of dressing sexy when needed.

"What you're wearing now looks nice." Kyle's cadence is complementary, but it's the same tone he had used to pick on John earlier so you know he's referring to the absence of one cap and a pair of silly wellies.

Well, you can be quippy, too. "Think I'm currently wearing your boss."

Both men laugh. Kyle takes his eye off the scope to take in the spectacle on his left for the first time since setting up. "Like I said, looks good on you," he winks.

"Eyes on the prize, Gaz."

"Were, sir." Kyle - Gaz?- cackles when you have at him, but ducks back to his scope and you huff, already bored again.

John notes your frustration and decides to make it worse. "Might not make your date, flower. At this rate we'll be here all night."

"'Course," you mutter, tucking a bit of bramble more thoroughly into the netting that adorns the sleeve in front of you. "First date I land in months, and then comes you lot."

"Sure he'll understand." John sounds distracted. When you glance at him, he's staring down at the way you're weaving into his equipment.

"He'll understand I got pinned under an army sniper?"

"Could tell him you got laid up with -."

"Shouldn't you be keeping quiet, sergeant?"

"Sorry, sir."

You glance between the two of them, but they're both resolute in their professional silence now. You sigh again, folding your arms under yourself to rest your head on. 

A moment passes. Another.

"Got a fox in my shot."

"Two o'clock?"

"There 'bouts, yeah."

"Saw 'im poking 'round a moment ago."

You nearly knock John's chin with how quickly you raise your head. "I wanna see."

"Hush," John instructs dismissively. 

You huff, and then remember you don't need him anyway. Wriggling your hips what little you can, you feel the hard cylinder of your lens press against your right thigh and you squirm around until you can feel it under your fingers.

"What're you doin?" John's lifted slightly off you, but you think it's a move probably rooted more in curiosity than an actual desire to make your task easier. Still, you'll take it.

Grinning triumphantly, you pull your camera up until it rests next to John's tripod and then frown, dejected, when you spot the snap halfway up the barrel. "Must've fell on it," you pout.

John is unsympathetic. His hand is big enough to encase the whole unit when he grabs it, flinging camera and all into the stream with another disheartening splash. 

Your cry dies in your throat this time, the fight gone out of you. When you slump back onto your arms dejectedly, John pats your elbow. "Material could've caught the light, flower. Had to be done."

You pout anyway. "Bloody expensive."

"I'll buy you a new one."

"You will, cap? Or will the service?"

"You will, if you don't shut up." 

"Wouldn't mind. Get 'er a real nice one. Anything you've had your sights on recently, buttercup?" 

"Don't have my sights on anything, currently," you snark and you can practically feel John roll his eyes. 

"Christ, here." He fiddles with the device a bit, then leans back enough he can guide your face up to the viewfinder. You keep a squeal of delight bottled in your throat when John's hand lingers over your jaw, reminding you how you need to keep quiet.

You watch the fox happily for a moment, content to let the boy's low conversation wash over you as you let this new amusement pass the time. Except then the fox wanders out of frame and when you move the scope in order to follow, you only seem to muck it up more. 

"Give me that," John grumbles, not unkindly. You slump back down anyway, like a child.

"Forearms, cap," Gaz drawls and you see John peel away from his scope long enough to look down at you. He grunts in acknowledgement, fiddles with his tripod, and then lowers himself even further onto you, wrapping one scraggy arm around your own to block you in completely.

It's so much worse. John runs hot, apparently, and without the breeze on your face at least, you're sweaty within minutes; or maybe hours, hard to tell. 

You've nothing better to do so you try synching your breathing with John's, thinking maybe that's the secret to his seemingly infinite patience. It's hard work, though, his breaths somehow both shallow and slow, and you wind up counting them instead to pass the time. 

Eight sets of one hundred later, Gaz breaks the silence with a low murmur which may as well be an explosion with how much it startles you out of your reverie. 

"Gotta piss." 

Your voice is floaty when you complain, head wobbling up to eye him. "Ew." 

John's stern chastising Kyle, calm when he brushes his lips against your ear. "Quiet, sergeant. Go back under, petal." You hum in agreement, duck into his arm, count his breaths again.

You lose track after another five hundred, content yourself to feel the warmth of him contrast with the cool damp of the soil underneath you. You remember the sight he makes above you, a rolling crest of greenery pulling you under. You blame your sleepy state when you begin to fantasize about it like some old myth; Hades collecting his dues. When he does speak again it's low enough you're not sure it actually comes from above you, half convinced you're hearing the movement of tectonic plates deep below instead. He sounds pissy though, despite his low, soothing tone, and you try to blink yourself into wakefulness, peering around to find Kyle unloading his gun with distractingly deft fingers.

"What's wrong?" You ask, dumbly, and John drops his hand from his radio back to your shoulder, rubbing at you with a heavy, steady hand. 

"Nothing, flower." To Gaz he adds, "Liked him better when he was dead,"

Gaz side eyes him, begins to load his gun back up. "Say the word, cap." His voice is so serious you only figure he's joking when John puffs a laugh across your cheek. 

You watch as John disassembles his own equipment, the weight of him almost fully pressing down on you now that both his arms are raised and busy. It's strange but you're almost sad it's over; it had been oddly relaxing, tucked away underneath him.

"You awake yet?"

"Wasn't asleep." He keeps pulling away from you, but the ground is cold so you get your hands underneath yourself and push up, following.

"Right. You ready to get up, then?"

John's movements are still slow and heavy. When you nod, he levers himself up to a kneeling position, wraps his hands around your tummy to bring you up as well. He sits there a minute while tucking various tools and things into his pockets and placing your cap back on your head. It takes you a moment to realize the way he's seated has him straddling your calves. He doesn't seem to mind how you lean back into his chest. 

"What time is it?" 

"Still hoping to make your date?" Gaz teases. He gets his equipment settled and holds out a hand to you to help you stand. When your feet catch on John's big boots, the captain steadies you with a hand on your back.

You'd nearly forgotten about the mousey little man who would likely be left waiting for you downtown. He doesn't hold much appeal anymore but you lie anyway and tell Gaz yes.

"More bad luck there, petal," John commiserates. His voice should be further away now that he's not laying on you, surely? When you turn you find him standing far too close, somehow seeming even larger now despite no longer crushing you into the ground. Gaz is tall too, you note, and between the two of them in their ghillies, you imagine you look like some illustration from a fairytale book: the barefoot maid and her two elements, maybe. It's silly, distracting, which is why you've already forgotten what he's talking about when John continues, "'fraid you still got debrief to sit through." 

"Huh?" You ask stupidly, and then yip when John throws you over his shoulder.

"Debrief. Could take all night," Gaz winks. "Looks like you're ours for the evening, flower."

"Oh. Well, you do still owe me a camera."

Gaz laughs, neat white teeth splitting his face in a handsome smile. "That's right, and cap here owes you some boots."

"Any color you want, flower," John agrees.

next>>

[opencommunion]

"On the 34th day at last you go on down to rediscover the suburbs and the villages of the south, and you see just how deceptive and lying the photographs have been. A picture can only convey the surface of things. There is no meaning to destruction without the experience of the sound of feet crunching on top of the rubble. There is no meaning to the rubble without the stench of gunpowder blending with the smells of decaying corpses, cement, and iron. And there is no meaning to the smell without the feeling that everything is sand, sand becoming more sand. Those who saw the images of Lebanese devastation on their TV screens, in the Arab world, and in the rest of the world, and then cried or cursed or swore or became upset—really they did not see anything at all. Believe me, my friends, you are living in the delusion that you have seen, but you have not seen. The eye alone does not see—despite the fact that the eye is the torch of the body, as the prophets proclaimed. Human beings see with all of their limbs, organs, and senses. With all of these we confront the unknown, and when the unknown comes to us we become part of it.

I saw, though, and I became part of this horizon covered in ruin. In the Dahiyeh, I saw people wandering about looking for their places. Even more difficult to endure than losing one’s home is losing the capacity to identify the road to one’s home. I saw people’s eyes darting from side to side, searching for a familiar place in the rubble. These were people who had lost any recognition of the features of the streets and the places they knew, people who were no longer able to determine where their home might have been, or even where the road to it might be.

It was a mix of terror and bewilderment. The place had simply abandoned the people, and it had become featureless. Without any signs or indications to go by, memory seemed about to disintegrate as well. At this moment I recalled Palestine. Harder to bear than the Israeli occupation and suffering eviction from one’s home has been the aggression against the place, and the modification of its features through demolition. The souls of the dead flee to their places and spread their shadows over the homes, their perfume mingling with the scent of flowers in the meadows. What would the souls of the dead say today, wandering amid the ruins? Do the Israelis over there in Palestine, or those who are right here, in Lebanon, know that they have been unable to win more than the curses of the dead?

But Palestine only comes to light in southern Lebanon: the ruin of the Lebanese Galilee is embraced by the ruin of the Palestinian Galilee. These are the slopes of the soul that lead you to God. In the south I discovered the fields of lemon trees that stretch from Saida to the horizon’s end, and I breathed the perfume of the orange blossom, the flower that is in its transformation like nothing so much as the silkworm. The silkworm fashions its silk before it becomes a moth. But here the white moth that spreads out on the branches of the trees transforms itself into a fruit, the fruit that gave its name to the 'orange' in European languages. And from the perfume of the naranj we come to the boisterous guffaw of history that you hear reverberating in the Beaufort crusader castle. Today nothing remains of those franj crusaders apart from their fortress, which has become the practically invincible fortification of the resistance. Just as we wrote our graffiti on its walls in the seventies, so they write on them today. But the dogged irony of history does not appear quite so clearly here as it does in the destroyed villages beyond the fortress. In Bint Jbeil, Aita al Shaab, Siddiquine, and Aitaroun—there you see how closely the destruction and devastation coheres and binds with the will to resist and with the will to remain steadfast on one’s land. You can see how the trembling, shimmering pulverized dust hanging in the air becomes a voice that immerses itself in silence, and then produces it. There, the sloping hills stretch out and carry you to a horizon that seems to be embracing the souls of the dead, and you feel that you have been cast into an endlessly circular path."

Elias Khoury, "Meditations Upon Destruction" (2006)

[darkelfchicksick]

So where *is* Tassing, actually?

Obviously it’s nowhere. But actually, it’s also several specific places in a specific area.

As someone who lives and has lived in several parts of Oberbayern, I'm so tickled by placing Tassing on a map. While trying to find a region it would fit in with all the clues the game gives, I also found several monasteries that probably contributed to the way Kiersau was written and created.

Names

Tassing fits a common naming scheme in Oberbayern. Places with an -ing name in Austria and Altbayern (roughly congruent with the present-day administrative districts Upper Bavaria, Lower Bavaria and Upper Palatinate) were founded in a specific time frame, the Baiuvarian Settling of the Alps. Up until the 7th century CE, the alpine landscape was inhabited by slavs, but from the 7th to 9th century, the Baiuvarii, a germanic group of people, moved into the area and ended up either displacing or integrating the slavic people into their own society. Examples of Baiuvarian -ing names in Upper Bavaria include Pasing (With the people of Paso/Paoso/Poso/Poaso), Menzing (With the people of Menzo) or Poing (With the people of Piuwo). Tassing might have been re-settled, founded or just be associated with a man named Tasso, and should be located somewhere in Altbayern.

Kiersau is a strange name to me and finding an etymologically-based interpretation, like for Tassing, is harder. (In general, trying to find etymologies for place names is often more educated guessing than anything else.) The Bavarian meaning of Au (or Aue) is a flat piece of land with meadows and forests located near a river (also: floodplain). The problematic part is Kiers. I'm choosing to put it down as Kirsche, cherry. Why? Well, cherry trees were brought across the Alps by Romans, and the Roman past of Kiersau and Tassing is important to the story. It might also just be a reference to Hirsau, a famous Benedictine monastery in the Black Forest.

None of the first or last names of the peasants, merchants or craftsmen in Tassing give any kind of hint as to where the place is located. Names like Bauer (farmer), Gertner (gardener) or Zimmermann (carpenter) are extremely common, and the more uncommon ones, like Alban, don't help narrowing it down either.

Area

We get one look at an Early Modern map of Europe, with a few mountain ranges, rivers, some of the most siginficant trade roads, and Tassing marked on it. We know that Tassing is part of the Prince-Bishopric of Freising in 1518 and borders directly on Tyrolia. We know it's in Bavaria, which I'm deciding to identify as the Bavarian territory of the Holy Roman Empire. I'm not getting into the true borders of Bavaria on my overly researched Pentiment post. We also learn that one of the Roman trade routes, possibly relateed to salt, was built to run past Tassing, and that Tassing is located somewhere in the province of Raetia. To identify and overlap all these areas, I have committed a horrible cartographic crime in Photoshop!

I have marked Raetia in yellow, the Roman roads in red, the Prince-Bishopric in brown and the Bavarian territory in blue. This first map shows these areas in a European context.

This one is a closer shot of the whole possible location of Tassing. Now, you might have noticed a little red dot in the lower right, outside of any of the possible areas, right there in Eastern Tyrolia?

Unfortunately, that is where the Pentiment map placed Tassing. Now, the in-game map is mirroring many a Early modern maps (I'm just glad they put a modern North-South axis on it, ngl), and is. Not Very Reliable. This part of Austria cannot be interpreted as Upper Bavaria by even the most lenient mapreaders, and I am electing to ignore it. Sorry.

I’m also locating Tassing west of Munich, not east, because I’m too familiar with the area around Rosenheim/Wasserburg and I’m just not getting Tassing vibes, even though Perchtenläufe are far more common today in the area.

Anyway, on to the last map. You'll notice there's a nice Roman road leading through the big pink area west, leading north towards Augsburg, and a second to the east that crosses into non-Freising territory and then passes (or crosses, my Roman roads map reference isn't super exact) a Freising enclave. 

When I first zoned into this map, I got really excited, because there IS a Benedictine monastery on the West road! Kloster Ettal - which is unfortunately mostly famous for a sexual abuse scandal in the Catholic boarding school that's part of the monastery. Yikes.

Kloster Ettal (1)

It was founded in the 14th century, so rather late, by Emperor Ludwig IV. The sanctuary features a small marble Madonna. Ettal remained rather unimportant until the 18th century. Pro: Right next to a Roman road, close to a small river, securely inside my possible location area and located on a hill. Con: Founded too late and not by a person comparable to the foundress of Kiersau. Not culturally significant before or during the time of Pentiment. No reference to any strange reliquiaries.

Epfach (2)

This is a small village near Denklingen. It's not significant for having a monastery, because there is none. However, Epfach used to be called Abodiacum, and it was located at an important intersection between the Via Claudia and the salt road between Salzburg and Kempten. Since the fall of the Roman Empire, it has lost meaning, and today Epfach is a village with a rich past. The coat of arms depicts a roman lamp with the Chi Rho, emphasizing the merging and mixing of pagan Roman and Christian influences in the area. There have also been several archeological finds, among them the Venus of Epfach, and you can visit a Nymphaeum near the school. I'm not rating this one pro and con, since Epfach doesn't have a monastery. However, I think the area may have been one of many inspiring places in Upper Bavaria that went into the creation of Tassing. I was especially tickled by the Nymphaeum and the murals that are on exhibit in the former fire station.

Beuerberg (3)

A double monastery, founded around 1120 by a local Noble, Berta von Iringsburg and her sons. It was widely known for its library and school, and it was ravaged by fire several times, which also destroyed parts of the library. Pro: Founded by a woman, double monastery, a history of fires. Con: Not a Benedictine monastery, not in the target area, most places burn down over the course of 800 years, and also I literally added it exclusively because my grandparents used to live here.

Wessobrunn (4)

Originally founded in 753 by Duke Tassilo III. near another Roman road, it was presumably the proprietary monastery of a family by the name of Wezzo, who according to legend led Tassilo to a spring he had dreamed of. The monastery was pillaged by Hungarians in 955 and rebuilt in 1065. A recluse, Diemut, a famous scribe, worked here after the monastery was rebuilt, although she wasn't part of an order. Wessobrunn became a double monastery in 1130 and burned down in the early 13th century, once again being rebuilt. It became known for its library, and as a local parton of art, especially stucco in the 18th century. Pro: Double monastery of Benedictines, located on a hill, had a famous female scribe and library, history of destruction by fire. Also, Tassilo could have inspired a place name like Tassing. Con: Never had a scriptorium, not in the target area, actual story of Tassilo founding it is considered ahistorical by most historians.

Benediktbeuern (5)

Located at the Via Raetia, this monastery was founded once again by Tassilo III. and was gifted, among other things, a salt mine in Tyrolia and several villages. It received an arm reliquiary of St. Benedict in the late 8th century, and head reliquiaries of the martyr Anastasia. Benediktbeuren was a double monastery until the 14th century, with the women's convent located north of the men's convent. Like Wessobrunn, Benediktbeuren was destroyed by Hungarians and rebuilt. Before and after this event, the monastery was home to a famous scriptorium, a famous library and it also had a parish church dedicated to Mary close to the monastery itself. The main part of the monastery was destroyed by a fire in 1490 and then rebuilt. Pro: Double monastery of Benedictines, famous scriptorium and library, connection to Tassilo, parish church dedicated to Mary, lead by a man called Matthias in the early 16th century, destroyed by fire, a hand reliquary and ownership of a salt mine. Con: The salt mine was days away, not in the target area, located on a plain.

Polling (6)

Founded as a Benedictine monastery in the late 8th century, once again connected to a myth of Duke Tassilo III. In this one, he's hunting and spots a doe that's scratching the ground. Digging up the spot, he finds three crosses and other treasure, and decides to build a monastery there. Polling was also destroyed by Hungarians, and was a a double monastery until 1300, when the nuns moved to Benediktbeuren. Since the early 12th century, Polling was an Augustine monastery and home to an important school. It also had lots of pilgrims coming in for the holy cross. Pro: Double monastery, located next to one of the Roman roads, parallel name to Tassing and connection to Tassilo, the doe Con: Not in the target area, not a Benedictine monastery, not known for a scriptorium.

Conclusio

You might ask yourself now, well! What was all that for? And the answer is, of course, to show how realistic and at the same time completely fantastic Kiersau and Tassing are. You can find something of Pentiment's locations in all of the places I've mentioned, and yet none of them are a perfect fit, because the story that Pentiment tells needs the combination of all these things to work.

There's no one place that Tassing mirrors, but I think my favorite find were the many monasteries founded by Tassilo, and the connection of Tassing via the place name - With the people of Tassilo. I love how closely the Roman history of Upper Bavaria, especially Epfach, is picked up, fractured and then condensed in Pentiment. I might write a follow-up on this about the local Pagan practices that we see from Ottilia, Sick Peter and Ursula, but I think I'm a bit too cynical to write about those in a fun way.

Sources:

Etymologies: Senseless searches on Wikipedia and Wiktionary.

Map of Raetia: https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raetia#/media/Datei:Droysens_Hist_Handatlas_S17_Germanien.jpg

Roman roads in Germany: https://www.altwege.de/roemer-und-kelten/interaktive-karte.html (Bernhard Schwade)

Bishoprics in Germany: https://www.historisches-lexikon-bayerns.de/Lexikon/Bistumsorganisation (map by Sonja Schweiger)

Map of Europe: google babey

History of the monasteries: https://www.hdbg.eu/kloster/ and a wide array of the monastery websites, Wikipedia and Wikimedia.

Ettal: https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kloster_Ettal#/media/Datei:Ethal_(Merian).jpg

Epfach: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hirte_mit_Schafen_-_r%C3%B6mische_Plastik_in_Abodiacum_(Epfach),_2020.jpg

Beuerberg: https://bildsuche.digitale-sammlungen.de/index.html?c=viewer&bandnummer=bsb00063022&pimage=678

Wessobrunn: https://bildsuche.digitale-sammlungen.de/index.html?c=viewer&bandnummer=bsb00063022&pimage=644

Benediktbeuern: https://api.digitale-sammlungen.de/iiif/image/v2/bsb10802259_00025/full/full/0/default.jpg

Polling: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Wening_Polling.jpg

[quaranmine]

Shoshone National Forest Fire Lookouts (compared to Firewatch game locations)

One of the more interesting things about my story research, and by extension the game of Firewatch itself, is that all of the lookouts in the game are fake. In the game, you have the Two Forks tower and the Thorofare one. You also have a Moss Peak lookout and a Spruce lookout listed at the supply drop. The map lists a Chimmney Peak lookout as well on the adjacent regions section, and it isn't too much of a stretch to assume that some of the other adjacent regions also have lookouts even if the word "lookout" isn't attached to the name. There's an abandoned cabin called Hawks Rest lookout. That's a lot of lookouts!

But none of those exist, or seem to have ever existed, in real life in Shoshone National Forest. Of course, that in itself is not too suprising--most of the other locations on the game map don't exist in real life either. Oh, the names are inspired ("Thunder" canyon, "Waipiti" meadow, "Beartooth" point) but the actual geographic features on the game map do not exist. There is no Jonesy lake, for example. It's a fictional setting created around a real life profession, of course it isn't referencing real locations. But there are tons of details in the game that are true to life.

There is a real Thorofare area. It's also an 85 mile backpacking route. More photos of the Thorofare area here. Gorgeous place, btw.

There is also a real fork in the Yellowstone River, splitting into an South Fork and an North fork. Inspiration for "Two Forks" as a name? Perhaps. It's not listed on the map above because I haven't zoomed in far enough, but the fork happens where the upper left flat area is.

There is a real "Hawk's Rest" location. (Game versus google images)

This cropped part of the game map is low resolution, but the adjacent regions listed to the Two Forks district are: Red Tops, Thorofare, Spruce, Crescent Mountain, Moss Peak, Ramshorn Peak, Chimmney Rock, and Irish Rock. Now looking on the map, what do we find in close proximity? These locations:

Ramshorn, Red Tops, Crescent Mountain, Irish Rock. The others might exist too (I swear I saw Chimmney Rock on another day) but I just didn't find it while making this post. It's hard to show in my screenshots, since these names only pop up when I'm really zoomed in, but all of these are in fairly close to each other on the map.

Most of the above mountains and real place names that correspond to the game Firewatch are located roughly in the red circle area. Some of the places are partially in Bridger-Teton National Forest instead. In road terms, the game seems to take place between HWY 14 out of Cody, WY and HWY 26 out of Dubois, WY.

Okay, so what about fire lookouts? Let's see the real life ones of Shoshone National Forest!

....well, there aren't that many. In fact, you can see a huge 'ol gap in same area as the spot I circled in the above map, which is where the locations in Shoshone match up to locations in the game. What's up with that? I'm not sure. Most of the lookouts on this map are either in Yellowstone, Teton, the Wind River Reservation, or Bridger-Teton National Forest.

In Shoshone National Forest, past or present, there is: Pinnacle Butte Lookout (no info), Warm Spring Mountain Lookout (gone), Blue Ridge Lookout (gone), Hunter Peak Lookout (gone), Windy Mountain Lookout (gone), and the Clay Butte Lookout (STILL STAFFED! but as a visitor information site.) The closest to the game site is Clayton Mountain Lookout, which is not present on the map above but in other former lookout registries I checked. It is gone as well.

None of these match anything in the game. They're either located on the far south finger of the Shoshone NF in the Wind River Range, or in the far north part near the Montana border. Most are gone, and were gone well before the late 80s when the game was set. Most don't even have photos attached. There was a total of 7 lookouts present in Shoshone National Forest total. The game Firewatch suggests 5 minimum lookout locations, and one former location, just in that small area of the national Forest. In the universe of Firewatch, I wonder how many total lookouts existed in other parts of this vast national forest?

I don't know if there's a point to this post, except that I find it quite interesting how the game incorporated real life names and locations into it, while still picking an area with relatively few lookouts ever present. And why is there so few lookouts in this area? Compared to the 900+ that existed in the neighboring Idaho? I'm not sure. That's a research question for another time.

Shoshone National Forest has the sights (beautiful location), the history (first ever national forest established; location of a wildfire that changed the trajectory of wildland firefighting history), and is adjacent to Yellowstone in a way that allowed the Yellowstone fires of 1988 to be incorporated into the storyline. But it is NOT the site of a rich fire lookout history, unfortunately.

[mothmiso]

2019 Morawy (2) (3) (4) by Aleksander Witosz

[thorsenmark]

Happy Outdoors Holiday in Del Norte Coast Redwoods State Park by Mark Stevens Via Flickr: While at an overlook view of the California coastline with a view looking to the south at nearby trees and hillsides in Del Norte Coast Redwoods State Park and part of Redwood National and State Parks.

[panlight]

Thinking about place in Twilight, how SM had originally called her draft of the story "Forks" (both for the location and the sense of choice, a fork in the road, etc). We've been over how there's no moral or logical justification for the Cullens to come back and how it's very much an author choice; she googled cloudiest places and fell in love with the area. Forks is almost a character in the story itself; certainly it sets a certain mood. Twilight would feel very different set in a big city, or the desert, or farmland, or New England, or the south.

Not everything is set in Forks; in fact the climax of the first two books are set elsewhere (Phoenix and Volterra), and Bella visits Jacksonville in Eclipse and Isle Esme in Breaking Dawn. But the newborn army comes to Forks. The international vampire witnesses come to Forks. The Volturi come to Forks. Bella and Edward are married in Forks, their daughter is born in Forks. This tiny town becomes the location of a lot of supernatural action. I've often said that the confrontation in BD makes more sense framed as a trial, and the trial more logically should have been held in Volterra. But it can't. Because Forks.

None of the other locations really matter in the same way. Sure, Edward's from Chicago, but it doesn't matter. She could have said he was from Boston or Milwaukee or Philadelphia and it wouldn't change anything. Carlisle being from London doesn't matter. Jacksonville and Phoenix don't matter either other than that they are Not Forks. Volterra and Isle Esme are fever dreams. Forks (and the larger Olympic Peninsula) is the only 'real' place in the story.

But then you run into the problem of the Cullens only staying in one place for a short time. Forks seems inevitable, the place where Bella fits, the place where she shines. The place where she was married, where Renesmee was born, where the meadow is, where the cottage is. But the Cullens, and therefore Bella, can't stay. Not forever, anyway. And that's something that BD seems to avoid because that thought tarnishes the happily ever after. The London of Carlisle's youth is gone; someday the Forks of Bella's love story will be gone, too.

[pcttrailsidereader]

The Pacific Crest Trail: The US West Coast's 'greatest footpath'

By Gavin Scarff

One hundred years after the US designated the world's first wilderness area, an epic hike offers adventure seekers the chance to experience a slice of the nation's wild side.

On 3 June 1924, more than half a million acres of pristine mountain meadows, rock-walled canyons and aspen glades in south-west New Mexico's Gila National Forest were designated as the world's first protected wilderness area. One hundred years later, the National Wilderness Preservation System now counts 806 official "wilderness areas" spread across nearly 112 million acres in the United States – an area twice the size of the United Kingdom.

Two years after Gila's wilderness designation, educator and hiker Catherine Montgomery proposed creating "a high-winding trail down the heights of our Western mountains… from the Canadian Border to the Mexican [border]." The idea gained momentum during the 1930s under the stewardship of oilman and avid outdoorsman Clinton C Clarke, who dedicated much of his life to creating a border-to-border trail "traversing the best scenic areas and maintaining an absolute wilderness character", as he put it. This idea would eventually become the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT): a 2,650-mile path connecting Canada to Mexico and has been called the West Coast's "greatest footpath".

In 2023, craving a challenge that would break us from our desk-bound lives and thrust us into the wild, my partner, Claire Taylor, and I qualified as Mountain Leaders and set out on an epic journey to complete the entire PCT. For five months, we hiked past cascading waterfalls, snow-covered badlands and narrow slot canyons as we travelled south along "America's Wilderness Trail". Upon finishing, there was one section that really stuck out to us: the state of Washington, which is home to 31 designated wilderness areas (11 of which the PCT traverses).

The PCT section of Washington covers 505.7 miles of incomparable beauty over remote passes, snowy peaks and dense ancient forests with little sign of human life. And since Washington's portion of the PCT leads hikers through a greater percent of designated wilderness areas (63%) than the other two US states where the trail passes (Oregon and California, which contain 52% and 37%, respectively) it remains a true testimony to Clarke's vision of maintaining a slice of the original American wilderness.  

Into the wild

"But what about the bears?" Claire asked. I replied with the line I'd been telling myself: "The presence of bears embodies the wilderness that we are seeking." In all honesty, having never hiked in bear and mountain lion country, we were a little nervous. We were about to spend five months hiking the PCT with nothing but our tent and hiking poles to protect us. But on our first day, we jumped out of the back of a pick-up truck whose faded bumper sticker read, "Into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul", and onto the trail.

We had spent an hour cramped among a handful of other hikers bumping along a dusty dirt road that wound its way along steep cliff edges from the small village of Mazama, Washington, to the trailhead at Hart's Pass, stopping just once for a herd of large white mountain goats to cross. Since it isn't permitted to cross a remote, unmanned border into the US from Canada, most travellers hiking southbound actually start here at Hart's Pass. They then trek north for 30 miles to "tag" the border before returning along the same trail where the pick-up truck had dropped us off four days earlier.

The North Cascades

Our journey started in the North Cascades, a vast mountain chain spanning more than 500 miles known for its jagged peaks, subalpine meadows, glaciers and waterfalls. "If you look at a map of Washington state, all the wildest places run down the spine of the North Cascades mountains," says Chris Morgan, an ecologist, filmmaker and podcaster who has called the North Cascades home for the past 30 years. "That spine is where our wilderness areas protect the wildest of our wild – [our] untamed landscapes where nature rules and reconnecting with raw, unfiltered life is still possible." As Claire and I peered out from the dense forest up to the towering mountains that we would soon ascend and pass through, we were struck by the utter vastness, remoteness and grandeur before us.

Ancient "blowdowns"

Within designated wilderness areas, there is minimal human intervention. "[Protected wilderness areas] were set up as places for humans to visit, but not linger," Morgan explained. Ten days after setting off, Claire and I were hiking through Glacier Peak Wilderness Area, known for its heavily forested streams, steep-sided valleys and rugged glacier-covered peaks. Fallen trees littered the path, often requiring us to carefully clamber over or under the debris. We passed a large "blowdown" fir tree that had been knocked down by a storm, cut and cleared by hand. Upon closer inspection, we noticed that someone had counted and marked its rings. Squinting, we counted roughly 700, meaning this tree was here more than 100 years before Columbus sailed to the Americas. As Morgan told me: "These [wilderness] areas thrust you back in time… to a time that connects us all to the raw nature of primordial life."

Staying wild

The PCT is maintained by the Pacific Crest Trail Association (PCTA) and a team of incredible volunteers. When I later asked Kage Jenkins, who works for the PCTA, about the role of designated wilderness areas, I was taken back to the 700-year-old downed tree. Kage explained, "Trail maintenance projects in wilderness areas mean no chainsaws or motorised tools; we rely on the crosscut saw. There's a simplicity and joy in spending the better part of a day at the foot of a stratovolcano cutting an enormous Douglas fir."

I then asked how the PCTA manages to maintain the trail while also keeping it wild. "The trail itself always finds a way to stay wild," Kage said.

Shifting landscapes

By July, the snow had just melted but there was already talk of fire among fellow hikers. We passed one young trekker going north to the Canadian border, who told us, "I hiked 2,600 miles last year but couldn't reach the border due to fire closing the trail. I'm back to hike the last 50 miles!" Wildfires are a very real threat in Washington. In July 2014 the Carlton Complex Wildfires burned 256,108 acres. This threat also provides opportunities for nature; some animals like the black-backed woodpecker and fire chaser beetle have evolved specifically to thrive in burn zones, while seeds from plants such as the snowbrush have shown that fire can actually stimulate germination. A warming climate means that the frequency and magnitude of Washington's wildfires is likely to increase.

In late July, we came across our first real burn zone. We hiked in silence through the dead trees, it was eerily quiet and somewhat disarming. The charred remains were a sobering reminder of how seemingly indomitable landscapes can be altered so quickly.

Ups and downs

Claire and I quickly found hiking through Washington both exhilarating and calming. Shortly after setting out, we came across the first bear droppings we would see in the middle of the path. Some nights, our campsite was swarmed by mosquitoes that had recently hatched following the melting snow. Other times, as the skies darkened and thunder rumbled, we rushed to find a flat camping site to wait out the incoming storm. This rollercoaster pattern continued, with hours of sunny, stunning hiking interrupted by extreme weather and energy-sapping lows. As Kimberly Myhren, a hiker we befriended on the PCT, said, "What makes [the PCT in Washington] difficult to hike is also what gives Washington its serene and rugged beauty."

These ever-shifting landscapes only added to the sense of wonder and adventure we felt along the trail: we weren't just passing through the environment but interacting and coexisting with it. "As many wilderness areas are large enough that there is no cellular service, these landscapes are places where one tends to disconnect from technology and be present in a different manner," Michael DeCramer, policy and planning manager at the Washington Trails Association, later explained "Visiting a wilderness area can afford an experience of remoteness that is difficult to find elsewhere."

"The mountain"

After a few weeks, we settled into a rhythm. While our GPS told us that we were covering an average of 20 miles and ascending more than 3,200ft each day, we soon found that we were measuring things differently. We focused less on time and distance and more on how we felt emotionally and physically. We were, as DeCramer later said, "present in a different manner".

One sunny day in mid July, "the mountain", as it's known to those in Seattle, came into view. Mt Rainier, the iconic 14,410ft active volcano and the most glaciated peak in the lower 48 states, appeared like a beacon. We had hiked 250 miles and knew we would enter the Mt Rainier Wilderness Area at mile 330, and having a reference on the skyline reinforced how quickly we were moving; each time we emerged from a dark forest or from a sheltered hillside, the mountain seemed to grow. Where possible, we would pitch our tents to catch a glimpse of the mountain before we fell asleep. The following morning, we would watch the first rays of sun reflect off its snowy peak as we sipped our steaming coffee.

The climb

The high-altitude terrain means that hiking the Washington section of the PCT shouldn't be taken lightly. It took us a full month to reach the Oregon border; by then we had ascended nearly 100,000ft – the equivalent of climbing Everest three times. With bags full of food, water, a tent, a sleeping bag and mat, clothing, a stove and gas and other gear, your fitness levels quickly improve. We had spent months training, yet still found ourselves exhausted most days and falling asleep by 20:00. After just 19 days, we had both lost a fair amount of weight and managing our weight and calorie intake became a battle we would fight for most of the trail.

Wilderness and civilisation

Whenever we needed to hike into nearby towns for supplies, the transition from wilderness to civilisation was abrupt and it felt strange to suddenly interact with locals after having not washed in days. Being able to fill up on much-needed food was great, but it came with hiking out of town with a heavy bag. Our meals were made of lightweight, high-caloric foods such as seeds, nuts, dried fruit, noodles, porridge, milk powder and the occasional freeze-dried meal as a treat. We stored our provisions in bear canisters that doubled as stools as we sat preparing dinner each evening. The canisters are designed to prevent bears and other creatures from accessing to your food supplies, and ensure there is no association between people and food.

We were awoken one morning by the sound of a pack of coyotes playing as the sun came up, their howls echoing through the forest. We also had five bear encounters in Washington, including a close interaction with a mother and two cubs who were more interested in their pursuit of berries than our presence. We met hikers who had seen mountain lions just metres from their tent. Deer would appear from nowhere, often while we were camping, curious and unafraid. On many afternoons, we passed marmots who whistled loudly at us to stay away.

Rustic lodging

In many places, long hikes end at a cabin with a hot shower. This is not the case on this section of the PCT, however. "Washington is home to some of the most remote areas on the entire PCT," explained Kage. "There are 40-mile sections of trail between the nearest two roads, further still to the nearest town." We carried our home with us, diligently pitching it every night at one of the numerous flat dirt spots established by previous hikers along the trail. Many nights we slept closer than we would have liked to dead but still standing trees – "widow-makers", as they're known by hikers, for their tendency to fall in the night.

While there were times I certainly missed a hot shower, many hikers prefer this rustic approach. As DeCramer said, "Many people report that wilderness areas provide an opportunity to experience challenge and self-reliance." Kage agreed, adding, "The PCT helps ensure each hiker can enjoy their own wilderness experience: appreciating a natural landscape and ecosystem, finding isolation or connection to and interdependence of wild places."

"What about the bears?"

After a month of hiking through Washington, I thought back to Claire's first question as we set out: "But what about the bears?" As I began writing this, a PCTA update flashed up on my phone: grizzly bears will soon be reintroduced into Washington's wilderness areas. "There are only six ecosystems in the USA outside of Alaska considered wild enough for grizzly bears, and this is one of them," said Morgan, who has been instrumental in advocating for their reintroduction "They will feel right at home deep in the heart of the endless forests and giant peaks that their ancestors once roamed."

One hundred years since the Gila wilderness area came into being, this feels fitting. For PCT hikers and for Washington, it's one more reason to cherish this great wilderness.

[brigadeproperties]

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[longing-and-heartache-and-lust]

you be my fire and I’ll be your gasoline, Ch.7

[prev][masterpost] [next]

After three and a half years of being unable to touch this, all there is to say is: ah shit, here we go again But in all honestly, I am so sorry that it took this long. Life has been all over the place, and since the last update I have managed to get a university degree, find a new best friend, decide that I am willing to risk it all and pursue writing as a career, and gain a whole new understanding of love. For those of you who'd been with me over the years -- I hope with all my heart that you will enjoy the very much delayed continuation of this story, and I thank you a thousand times over for sticking with me through it all. For the new people -- I promise the next chapter won't take three years for me to write.

The first couple of days on the road go by almost unnoticed, the weather kind to the world, blooming more and more with what seems like every passing hour. They travel through the endless meadows and forests, keeping to the shade during the hottest hours, and the further South they get, the more the air fills with a sweet, heady scent of flowers and early fruit. Every now and then, they find themselves beneath the lush canopies of apple trees, and Jaskier reaches up from the saddle to pluck a couple of plump, crisp fruit from the branches, feeding them to Cerbin and Roach. The apples are still a bit too tangy for his taste, but the horses love them, and so, it seems, does Geralt, because he eats them with just as much appetite. Jaskier makes a face at him every time, but that doesn’t deter the witcher from his snacks. 

They fall into the rhythm of each other easily, setting up camp at night like they’ve done it a thousand times before. While Jaskier tends to the horses and lays out the bedrolls, Geralt disappears into the woods to find something to eat, the fire already lit by a snap of his fingers, Igni working its tricks every time. It’s something that Jaskier very much misses when he travels alone — no matter how many times he’d started a fire in his life, he never became much of a fan of the process. Tending to the fire was just fine by him, just not the igniting part. Geralt didn’t mind, though, never rolling his eyes or huffing with displeasure, like the other Geralt loved doing on the days when he was unhappy with whatever it was that he was unhappy with. 

And Jaskier— Jaskier loved him, he did. He’d loved him for years, and it wasn’t something that he could just will to go away — he’d tried, gods know he tried, — but that love, painful from the very beginning, twisted the knife in his heart with a new sort of cruelty now, when he saw just how different Geralt could be. For it was Geralt, other version or not — with every passing day, Jaskier could see more and more familiar gestures and habits, caught the all too familiar pronunciations of certain words.

It caught him off guard, sometimes. 

On their second evening on the Path, when they’ve already had their fill of dinner and were warming their hands and bellies on rosehip tea, Geralt was telling the bard one of his endless stories, and the way he said “The ship’s captain knew fuck all about the waters he was sailing” sounded so much like the Geralt that Jaskier was used to, down to the little huff of amusement, that for a moment, he just froze in place before shaking his shoulders, like he could physically make the sudden ache lift. If the witcher noticed — and Jaskier knew that he probably did, — he didn’t say anything, continuing with his story without pause. It was something that Jaskier had noticed about him even before they set out on their way to Cintra — Geralt didn’t pry. It was impossible to hide anything from him, at the very least because he was a witcher, and witchers could tell emotions apart by scent, but despite that, Geralt let him be time after time, not asking questions that Jaskier wasn’t ready to answer. 

Jaskier wondered, sometimes. when they were riding in comfortable silence, the only sounds between them the soft knocking of their horses’ hooves, if Geralt knew. If he knew of the feelings that Jaskier carried in his heart for his other version, the feelings that he hid so expertly in the furthest corners of his heart, afraid that the slightest ray of sunshine would bring ruin if it was to ever touch them. And though they hurt, though they made Jaskier feel like he’s going to choke on his own blood one day, his heart finally giving out and ripping itself apart in his chest, he couldn’t give them up. He carried all that love, all that deeply-rooted, aching longing in his heart like a glass shard, but a shard of something dear to him, something that he protected like a precious stone. It didn’t matter that the sharp edges were leaving cut after cut on his heart, that one day he would shift something in his chest with not enough caution, and the shard would finally cut too deep for him to survive the blood loss. 

It meant too much to him; it made him whole, in a way that he couldn’t explain even to himself, let alone someone else. The pain was part of him, had been for so long that he could barely remember a time without it, and in Jaskier’s mind, it was almost a sign of him being alive, something vital, like the beat of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest, the blood in his veins. It is what it is, he would tell himself over and over again, If this is how the gods will it, then it is how it’s supposed to be, no matter to what end. 

He didn’t really believe in the gods before he met Geralt eight years ago, but then, as time went on and the only warmth the witcher would ever show him would be a reluctant parting embrace, Jaskier found some solace, some consolation in the thought that it was all happening to him because it was meant to be happening. That it wasn't his own poor choice of loved ones, that it wasn’t some sort of cruel fate but was, instead, simply what it had to be. It was easier that way, it was a means to protect himself, and the recent years of hunting taught him that when it came to protecting yourself, you were to use any and all possible ways to do it. What mattered was that you shielded yourself from pain and death, how you did it had no role to play in the equation. 

None of that he talked about with Geralt, though he knew that the easy, near-instant trust that grew between them had space enough to allow for it. And he doubted that it would’ve been any different even if the topic of the conversation was someone that Geralt had never even heard about.

They did, however, talk about Coën. 

Jaskier confessed to Geralt — after some persuasion — that he wasn’t completely honest with the Wolf before, and that when he said that he’d spent a couple of weeks with Coën, he only meant that he’d spent a few weeks with him the first time they’d met. After that, over the years, their paths have crossed again and again, and each time was as sweet as the ones before. With a part of his heart that was still his own to do with as he pleased, Jaskier loved him, of course, because Coën was impossible not to love. 

That , Jaskier didn’t tell Geralt, but he could tell that he knew. 

That was an easy love, though. The kind of love that Jaskier was used to from his years in the Academy, intoxicating and heady, but also gentle, kind to his jaded heart and his restless mind. There was, of course, the ache of missing him when he was gone, but Jaskier had Coën’s sword on his back as a reminder of the witcher, a part of him that linked them together. Coën, in turn, carried with him a necklace that Jaskier had worn for years before giving it to the witcher. 

“When’s the last time you saw him?” Geralt asks, his golden eyes shifting to an rich amber, reflecting the campfire burning between him and the bard.

Jaskier can tell that there isn’t the slightest trace of jealousy in the witcher’s voice, that he’s genuinely interested to know. Coën, Jaskier reminds himself, is dear to Geralt in the other realm, the closest thing to a brother that a witcher can have, second only to the other Wolves. 

“Seven months ago now,” Jaskier says, at length. “Almost twice as long as it usually takes us to find each other again. But then again, he is quite preoccupied with the Poviss court.”

Geralt lifts a brow in surprise, taking a swig of wine from a bottle they’d bought in a town they passed by in the morning. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and passes the bottle over to Jaskier. 

“The court?” he asks.

The bard nods. “He’s with the Intelligence.”

Geralt’s surprise at the information becomes so apparent that Jaskier snorts, nearly choking on his wine. He’s never really had the chance to tell anyone that one of his lovers is part of a grand spiderweb of Intelligence here in the Northern Kingdoms, and it feels a little too good to finally see a reaction to take it all back, claiming it was a joke. 

“That is, I imagine, how he always knows where to find me,” Jaskier goes, as a way of explaining. “I like to think that he looks out for me in the months that we’re in different kingdoms.Though he would never admit to it, naturally.”

Jaskier falls silent for a while, looking into the fire with the slightest of smiles curing his lips. Geralt doesn’t break that silence, though the bard can feel the witcher’s gaze resting on him. He wonders, distantly, if he’d be able to listen if it was Geralt that was telling him about someone that, in one way or another, had claim to his heart. If he was being completely honest with himself, he knew that the answer was “no”. Whether that made him the lesser man, he didn’t know, but Geralt wasn’t forcing him into finding out. After he’d mentioned Ciri — the daughter of a woman he loves , — on Belleteyn, he never spoke of either one again. It is yet to happen in this realm, and I’ve got no right to tell you the future , he said, allowing Jaskier to believe that that was if not his only, then his main reason, at least. 

“I take it, Coën that you know is not the same?” Jaskier teases, passing the wine back.

“That, or he’s damn good at keeping secrets,” Geralt huffs. “Which is, I suppose, one of the main requirements to being a spy.”

Jaskier laughs, casting a glance sideways, where he can hear Cerbin rusting in the bushes. Roach is grazing somewhere nearby, flicking her ears at the stallion, too young and too impatient to stay in one place for long. 

“What’s he like?” Jaskier asks, finally, after days of keeping his interest at bay. “ Your Coën?”

Geralt considers it, shifting to lie down next to the fire, one arm behind his head. With the other, he pats the space next to him, and Jaskier doesn’t need much more persuasion — putting his lute, that he’d kept on his knees before that, — aside to come lie next to the witcher, the evening warm and heady with the scent of jasmine. 

As he lies down, Geralt wraps an arm around his shoulders, turns his head to press a gentle kiss to Jaskier’s hair, effortless with his affections. Jaskier shines with it, moving even closer and letting out a content breath, his eyelashes fluttering closed. He doesn’t think about the days slowly but surely creeping up on them, about how every new stretch of road brings them closer to the moment when they will inevitably have to part — he allows himself to be in the present, basking in the attention and the warmth. 

“Well, he’s certainly not a Poviss spy,” Geralt begins, with a chuckle. “He’s a prime example of a Griffin, really, which is to say that if he wasn’t like a brother to me, I would’ve called him a knightly know-it-all. More than anything, he loves to talk about his principles, and it’s those that let him to—”

Abruptly, Geralt cuts himself off, and Jaskier can feel his body tense before relaxing again. But before he can ask, before the sharp pang of alarm in his chest transforms into words, Geralt goes on, not allowing him enough time to speak:

“It’s those that have led him into trouble more than they’ve ever led him to anything good. But, of course, trying to change his mind or convincing him of something that doesn’t align with how he sees it is about as fruitful as trying to convince a fucking foglet to stop ripping people to shreds.”

Jaskier laughs, quietly. 

“Sounds like him,” he says. “He’s got his ideals that he protects vehemently, and if he decides on something, no amount of pleading, reasoning or threats will ever change his mind. Not to mention that he, naturally, has to know all there is to know about everything and everyone. Pretty sure that that’s the main reason why he’d joined the Intelligence. They need people like him there.”

“True,” Geralt agrees. “But I don’t think that the Coën that I know would turn your head nearly as much. I don’t want to call him a bore, and he isn’t, but he’s certainly not the one to take a human to a hunt or sleep with someone he’d just met. I cannot imagine Coën flirting with anyone, though he’s got his charms.”

Jaskier mostly ignores the second half of the sentence, because the Coën he knows definitely knows how to get just about anyone into his bed. but he does say:

 “Coën doesn’t really think I’m human.”

At that, Geralt’s surprise becomes palpable. He props himself up on one elbow, making Jaskier shift with a displeased little sound. He’d been so comfortable with his head on the witcher’s shoulder, after all. But he understands the reaction, of course. And he remembers them leaving the inn five days ago, the sudden surge of energy that washed over him like a wave when Geralt placed his medallion on the bard’s neck. Jaskier remembers the world around him coming into such sharp focus that it almost hurt, his fingers tingling with a feeling he couldn’t begin to describe despite his talent with words. Over the days, he kept coming back to that in his thoughts. 

Geralt looks at him without words, but his quizzical gaze speaks volumes regardless. Jaskier sits up, runs his hand through his hair, takes in a breath. 

“The more he trained me, the more he told me that it’s pretty much impossible for someone with just human blood in their veins to take up hunting the way I have,” he says. “That I move too fast for a human, that silver daggers lie too lightly in my hands. That wounds heal on me a little too quickly, and there are fewer scars than he’d expect a human to have after.”

He shrugs, a move of his shoulders that isn’t as easy as he’d like it to be. The topic had never really bothered him, but in the past days, he thought about it too much to now be able to brush it off with nonchalance.

“Elven blood, then?” Geralt says, after a while.

“That’s what he told me,” Jaskier agrees, but he can’t stop thinking about the fact that witcher medallions shouldn’t react to elves, let alone quarter- or even half-elves. “He even told me, once, of Hen Ichaer , Elder Blood. But that I absolutely do not have.”

Jaskier laughs, and in his merriment, he fails to catch the glimpse of a shadow that passes over Geralt's features. By the time Jaskier looks at him again, the witcher also has a smile on his lips, a glimpse of sharp canine showing.  

“Yes,” he nods. “I suppose, you would’ve known if you had in you some of the most powerful magic known to the Continent.”

The conversation trails off after that, shifting to other topics. They talk about the road ahead, about the towns that they could stop at, with Jaskier obviously insisting on Oxenfurt. Novigrad, on the other hand, as they collectively agree, is not a place that’s worth paying a visit to. 

“Is it as bad in a few decades from now as it is currently?” Jaskier asks, back in the warmth of Geralt’s arms. “With all my love for busy streets and the bubbling life, I much prefer the torch-lit cobble streets of Oxenfurt, full of students and professors. I might’ve grown too old to enjoy Novigrad.”

Geralt snorts. 

“You’re twenty-six.

Jaskier shoves him in the side.

“Yes, and the last time we visited, I was twenty-five, which is already too old to find any delight in that gods forsaken city. Life on the road has made me way too fond of peace and quiet.”

He lets the “we” slip before he can catch himself, and Geralt, naturally, picks up on it. Jaskier knows what he’s going to ask before the question is spoken:

“You and your Geralt?”

“He’s not mine,” Jaskier replies, automatically. “And, regardless, I wasn’t with him. If I hate Novigrad, then he’s deadly allergic to it.”

“Coën, then?” 

The memories, warm and brilliantly-clear, like the waters of a river in the heat of summer, wash over Jaskier as he nods, a smile playing on his lips. He’s half-asleep already, the burning fire warm on his skin, Geralt’s presence a steady, now-familiar security at his side. The visions of the past come to him as saturated and full of life as if he was still there, at an inn on the outskirts of Novigrad. 

“I’ve told you before, and I will tell you again — you’re insane, Jask,” Coën laughs, closing the door behind them and setting the logs in the fireplace aflame with a wave of his wrist. “The next time you decide that you’re in dire need of slicing the heads off a few drowners, can we please find some place that is not the Novigrad docks to do it.”

Jaskier is still high on the adrenaline from the hunt. His every sense is still sharpened, the tips of his fingers tingling with the taste of victory. It was by no means effortless, but the struggle made it all the sweeter. Coën didn’t interfere, watching from the flanks with pride burning in his eyes, and all the spoils of victory were for Jaskier alone to collect. 

It wasn’t even a contract — they went out to hunt for practice, as without Coën, Jaskier was still reluctant, most of the time, to get himself into trouble willingly.

“As much as I hate this city, I have to give credit where credit is due — it’s perfect hunting ground,” Jaskier says, putting his sword aside and undoing the buckles of his armor before falling onto the bed, reveling in the feeling of the covers under him. The night air is filled with the scent of wild flowers. “Where we killed five drowners tonight, there will be ten tomorrow.”

Coën shakes his head with an indulgent smile, comes closer, sitting down on the bed next to the bard. His green eyes catch the reflection of the flames, and shine brighter with the familiar gold. He pushes his black hair from his face only for it to fall back a second later, and leans down, brushing his lips over Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“ You , not we.”

Jaskier opens one eye to look at him.

“Hm?”

“ You killed them, Jask, not we,” Coën repeats, tugging his boots off and getting onto the bed properly to pull Jaskier to his chest, where the bard rests his head with familiar ease. “You impress me more and more every time we meet. Though sometimes I do wonder if I’ve made a horrible mistake when I’ve decided to teach you to hunt.”

“Oh, come on,” Jaskier snorts. “You know I’ll be safe.”

Coën brushes his fingers over Jaskier’s cheek, drawing his attention and leaning in closer to his lips, his own upturned in a grin.

“Who’s talking about your safety? I’m starting to worry you’ll take all the contracts from me.”

The memory fades slowly, leaving behind a pleasant warmth. With it, though, it brings another one, one that Jaskier hadn’t had the time to think about, caught up in the sudden passion that bloomed between him and Geralt. The memory of their first night together, and the witcher calling Jaskier his. No matter how many lovers you’ve had or are going to have, you’re mine , he said. And Jaskier knows that he asked for it himself, knows that back then, he longed for it, ached for it — the feeling of belonging to someone. But when he really thought of it, when he thought of this realm’s Geralt, thought of Coën, he couldn’t quite find that same feeling in his chest anymore. 

Shifting again, Jaskier just barely holds himself back from cursing under his breath. 

Feelings were a complicated thing, he knew, but he still, from time to time, forgot about it, even though they’ve always, inevitably, caught up to him. Back at the inn in the middle of nowhere, it was all too easy to completely lose himself in the sudden, heady attraction, in the feeling of being desired, needed. And he didn’t regret it, not for a moment, but he also saw now, in clear view, that the three months ahead weren’t going to be the same. He wanted to be honest with Geralt — as much as he could bear to be, — and that meant facing his own heart first. 

The bond between them was undeniable, like they’ve known each other for years, but now, when his head cleared slightly, Jaskier thought about it a little more soberly. A week ago, if Geralt had told him that he’s got the means to go back to his realm that same evening and asked if Jaskier wanted to go with him, he would’ve said yes. Now, as some time has passed, he wasn’t sure that that was the decision that he could make so easily, if at all. 

This realm was everything that he’d ever known. His friends and colleagues were his, his hard-earned career and reputation were here. Coën was here. Geralt was here. 

No matter how harsh the witcher that he’d known for eight years now was, no matter how much pain he caused him, both intentional and not, Jaskier couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. And no more than that could he bear the idea of never seeing Coën again, his beloved Griffin, the only creature in the entire world that had always seen Jaskier for more than just his colourful silk and velvet, the lute in his hands. They were never in what Jaskier would necessarily call a relationship, but every time they met, it was like they never parted. 

The last time they saw each other, after Coën had, as always, found him through his spiderweb, Jaskier ran into his arms right in the middle of the dusty country road, paying no mind to the farmers working in the field that looked up at them with what was disapproval at the very least. And Coën paid them all even less mind, pulling Jaskier so close that the bard could feel something in his shoulder crack, before kissing him with everyone watching. That was one of the things that never failed to mesmerise Jaskier about Coën — the way he simply did not give a fuck, ready to challenge the entire world, his sharp canine shining brighter and more deadly than his daggers. Jaskier never felt more alive and more safe than when he was with him. 

Could he really give it all up, even if it was so easy to think it to be Destiny?

“Jask?” Geralt’s voice pulls Jaskier abruptly from his thoughts and memories. “You still with me?”

Jaskier almost laughs at the double meaning that the question has to him. Instead, he clears his throat, a blush creeping up his cheeks. 

“Sorry, I must have drifted off a bit,” he lies, trying to will his pulse to remain steady. “What were you saying?”

Geralt gives him a look that lets Jaskier know that the witcher can tell he’s lying, but for whatever reason, he doesn’t press. Would Jaskier have done the same, if the roles were reversed? Would he be able to just let it go if he saw that Geralt was so blatantly dishonest with him? That, as Jaskier realised with a sharp twist of something in his chest, was one more question to add to the list of thighs that demanded answers. 

“I asked if you were with Coën,” Geralt repeats, finally, and Jaskier thanks all the gods when the witcher relaxes again, readjusting the blanket that he’d thrown over them both earlier in the night. Jaskier really could’ve drifted off like this, the lie was almost believable. “In Novigrad.”

Jaskier makes himself more comfortable, rearranging their position into one that will allow him to actually fall asleep. It’s past midnight, and his worries are starting to get too much for him to keep them at bay, so going to sleep and ignoring them all together seems like the best option he’s got. It’s not necessarily the best decision, but it’s one currently available to him. He was used to baring his heart to everyone that would and would not listen, his songs filled with the bitter sting of heartbreak as much as heroics, but doing it before a crowd of patrons felt somehow… distant. Like he was saying it all with a mask on, or in another language. That veil of impersonality, thin as it was, kept him from feeling too vulnerable. But speaking about his feelings and his hears like this, one on one? Jaskier wasn’t sure he had it in him, not after everything. 

And so, pretending like none of it existed, even for a couple of hours, was all he could do. 

“I was, yes,” he says, finally, tucking himself closer to Geralt’s chest. The witcher’s medallion hums softly from his proximity, and that’s yet another thing that Jaskier can’t allow himself to think too hard about right now. “He tends to like Novigrad, actually. And, surprisingly, he knows how to make it bearable for his companions. That was probably the only time I visited that I didn’t want to leave immediately after stepping foot beyond the city walls.”

Geralt chuckles, a genuinely amused little sound in his throat, and noses at Jaskier’s hair, clearly also ready to drift off. After they’d left the inn, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other for two more nights, but after that, they did settle into something more gentle, the precious hours of darkness, which were now only getting shorter with the summer heat, were dedicated to sleep rather than heady passion. As fun as it was, the Path demanded it’s due, and they were both experienced enough to know that being well-rested is more important than having fun. 

That, however, in no way meant that they’ve had enough of each other. Sleeping through the night left them with more than enough energy to spend it during the day, be it on a bank of a river, while the horses were enjoying the cool waters, or hidden somewhere in an apple grove, aways from the prying eyes of passers by.  

“If the Coën that I know heard that, he probably would’ve claimed this realm’s version of him either out of his mind or possessed by a demon,” Geralt says, with a soft laugh. “For as long as I’ve known him, he’d always hated Novigrad with a burning passion. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure that there is nothing on the entire Continent that irritates him more than the Free City. He doesn’t even like to talk about it, let alone visit it.”

Jaskier echoes Geralt’s laughter, trying to imagine the man that he’d never seen but, in some way, knows. Geralt had told him that Coën’s counterpart from the other realm also has black hair and green eyes, that he’s also tall and never dresses in anything other than black. He does, however, have a beard that Geralt had confessed to being jealous of, and that is not something that Jaskier can imagine.

“I don’t think I would’ve recognised him if I were to run into him in a tavern, like I did with you,” he finally says, and Geralt hums, like it’s a question that they’ve both been trying to settle for a while. “But then again, you are more recognisable. With the hair and all.”

“I’m quite surprised, actually,” Geralt says, shifting again and making Jaskier groan with frustration. He’d already learned that the witcher loves tossing and turning before finally falling asleep. “At how quickly you believed me. You know, with your Geralt being—”

“Not mine,” Jaskier corrects him, without even thinking anymore.

Geralt barely stops to acknowledge his words.

“Yes, yes, not yours,” he says dismissively. “With him being the famed White Wolf and everything. I could’ve been an imposter or a mage disguised behind an illusion, for all you knew.”

Jaskier’s already half-asleep, and he’s not willing to think about the what’s, if’s and maybe’s of the whole situation. So in response he just grumbles:

“I’ve asked you questions that only Geralt could know the answers to, and you knew the answers.”

The witcher, it seems, is in no mood to sleep, for he goes on, and Jaskier has no idea where he’d gained that sudden burst of energy right before going to bed. The fire warms him, makes his body feel pleasantly heavy, and Jaskier allows himself to drift further and further off, without really listening to Geralt and his lectures about how the bard should be more careful with trusting strangers. 

After a while, the length of which Jaskier would not be able to determine even if he wanted to, he realises that there’s been a stretch of silence, indicating that Geralt is waiting for some sort of an answer from him. Having missed most of what’s been said, the bard just waves his wrist, pulling the covers closer to his chest.

“Alright,” he says, the words slightly slurred by sleep. “If I ever meet yet another version of you, I promise not to trust him no matter what he tells me.”

Behind him, Geralt makes a sound of approval, like Jaskier had passed a test that the bard wasn’t even aware he was taking. 

“And what of Coën?” he asks, after a few more seconds, jerking Jaskier out of his sleep once again. The bard frowns, having lost the thread of conversation. 

“What of Coën?” he repeats, willing himself to stay awake long enough to finally answer all the questions that Geralt has decided to ask him instead of keeping them to himself until the morning.

“Say that you were to recognize him, somehow,” Geralt goes on, and it sounds like he’d either explained it thrice over already or it’s simply the most obvious thing one can think of. Jaskier doesn’t have the willpower to figure out which one it is. “Would you have approached him, slept with him? That is, if we pretend that the Coën that I know is a bit more easy-going. That is to say — would you have done with him all that you have done with me?”

Whether Geralt is trying to figure something out for himself or simply has nothing better to do, Jaskier does not know, and he’s way too tired to try and figure it out. But, regardless, he replies:

“No, I wouldn’t. I’m too—”

“You’re too used to your Coën,” Geralt says, before Jaskier can finish. Despite the stress on the possessive pronoun, he doesn’t sound jealous, rather wistful, like he’d found another part of an equation that he’s trying to solve.

This time, Jaskier doesn’t correct him, finally falling deep into the dreamless darkness of sleep.

[read it on ao3]

[mountrainiernps]

Have you ever picnicked at Sunrise?

Sunrise is a special place in the national park. It’s in the northeast corner of the park with access from State Route 410. The road to Sunrise is the highest elevation road in the park. It is also a seasonal road. Due to winter snows, winds, and weather, the road to Sunrise is plowed open typical by early July. The road stays open through the sunny, warm summer and into autumn. When the snow starts to fly and then pile up, the road to Sunrise closes to motor vehicles for the winter.

From State Route 410 in the park’s northeast corner, you drive south to the intersection with the White River Road. Turn right and the road takes you to the White River entrance booth and then up to the bridge over the White River and the White River Campground. There, you can follow the road to the right and climb up the ridge to Sunrise. It is not a short drive, but it is beautiful and worth the time.

When you reach Sunrise, you are at the end of the road. Park in the lined spaces in front of the visitor center, restroom building, and day lodge. A number of trails start right from the parking lot. And there’s another special treat; the picnic area. If you go to the trailhead on the west side of the parking lot, just to the north of the restrooms, the trail takes off for Sourdough Ridge and many other destinations. You’ll also see a sign for the picnic area. Follow the arrow to the left, walk through the trees until you find the picnic area trails leading up the hill.

Mixed in among short evergreens, you’ll find a plethora of picnic tables. Some are secluded amongst the trees and some are open to great views of the mountain. Picnicking at Sunrise gives you options.

When was the last time you picnicked at Sunrise?

Do you think it’s better for a breakfast, lunch, or dinner picnic?

What is your favorite memory of picnicking at Sunrise? ~ams

For more information on the Sunrise area please use this link https://www.nps.gov/mora/planyourvisit/sunrise.htm For trail information in this area https://www.nps.gov/mora/planyourvisit/upload/2020-Sunrise-Area-Trails_access.pdf Please help preserve these subalpine meadows by staying on the trails. For more information see https://www.nps.gov/mora/planyourvisit/meadow-preservation.htm

Photos are from earlier times and do not represent current conditions. NPS/Spillane Photo. Access route to picnic area made of old pavement and gravel. Sign at Y says, “Picnic Area” with an arrow pointing to the left. Evergreen trees lined the path. August, 2023. NPS/Spillane Photo. View through tree branches of shady wooden and concrete picnic table. August, 2023. NPS/Spillane Photo. Wooden and stone picnic table with evergreen trees. Mount Rainier in background. August, 2023. NPS/Spillane Photo. Purple Cascade Asters in bloom in Sunrise picnic area. August, 2023.

[aimeedaisies]

Court Circular | 9th February 2024

St James’s Palace

The Princess Royal, Royal Patron, National Coastwatch Institution, this morning visited Worms Head Station, Old Coastguard Station, Rhossili, followed by a Reception at South Gower Sports Club, Scurlage, and was received by His Majesty’s Lord-Lieutenant of West Glamorgan (Mrs Louise Fleet).

Her Royal Highness this afternoon visited Newport Medieval Ship, Estuary Road, Queensway Meadows Industrial Estate, Newport, and was received by His Majesty’s Lord-Lieutenant of Gwent (Brigadier Robert Aitken).

The Princess Royal afterwards visited Newport Transporter Bridge undergoing maintenance at Stephenson Street, Newport, Gwent.