#visit orkney

[angelkarafilli]

The Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh visited Orkney on 12 August 1960, an event covered by around 70 reporters from national newspapers and the BBC.

More on:https://www.orkney.gov.uk/OIC-News/Remembering-a-Royal-tour-of-Orkney.htm

[thedaughterofkings]

If you had asked me to guess what you could do at something called “The Tomb of the Eagles”, I would not have guessed skateboarding and ice cream lol

It's not actually a skateboard, but a broader board with rolls on it and you lie down on it on your back and then you grab a rope above you and use to drag yourself into the tomb and there you can get off the board and look around and it's really cool!

As for the icecream - the museum/shop doesn't have a café but they do have a coffee machine, I believe, and they definitely have a little freezer with little tubs of ice cream made with milk from Scottish cows and there's a little bench in front of the shed/garage/whatever at the very beginning of the walk to the tomb where you are a bit sheltered from the wind and can sit in the sun, if the timing is right, and eat the ice cream and it's just such a great start to a visit of the Orkneys.

So if you visit the Orkneys, especially if you take a car across, turn right after the ferry towards the tip of South Ronaldsay and visit the Tomb of the Eagles!!! I can really highly recommend it!

Oh, and ice cream wise, I recommend honeycomb or salted caramel, though really all flavours I've tried so far were delicious!

[scotianostra]

Today is World Heritage Day

Oiginally known as the International Monuments and Sites Da it is a global celebration of this planet’s heritage. It’s all about increasing the awareness of the importance of the diversity of cultural and natural heritage and preserving this heritage for future generations..

In Scotland we’re lucky enough to have no less than six UNESCO World Heritage Sites. they are;

St Kilda.

The remote Hebridean island archipelago is one of only two-dozen global locations with World Heritage Status for both natural and cultural significance.

The archipelago shares this honour with natural and cultural wonders such as the Historic Sanctuary of Machu Picchu in Peru and Mount Athos in Greece.

I'd love to visit, but it is a wee bit too expensive for me.

Edinburgh Old and New Towns.

Some people have asked me which part of Edinburgh is covered by this title, well the simple answer is all of it!

The capital is a city of many eras, and its World Heritage Site comprises both the old and new towns. The Auld Toon has preserved much of its medieval street plan and Reformation-era buildings along the wynds of the Royal Mile.

The (relatively) New town contrasts this perfectly with neoclassical and Georgian architecture in regimented order.

Antonine Wall.

I've explored many parts of the wall. Constructed around 142 AD by the Romans, the Antonine Wall marked the north-west frontier of their empire. Stretching from the Firth of Forth and the Firth of Clyde, the Antonine Wall separated the civilised Romans from the wild Caledonians.

The Heart of Neolithic Orkney

I've not visited The Northen Isles as yet, plans were in the early stages to go this year, but my friend ended up in hospita and is still recuprating, hopefully we can get something sorted when she becomes more able.

The Orkney mainland is synonymous with archaeology. It boasts the mysterious standing stones at the Ring of Brodgar and megaliths at Standing Stones of Stenness, as well as the 5,000-year-old settlement of Skara Brae and chambered cairn and passage grave of Maeshowe. Together these four sites form the heart of Neolithic Orkney, which was given World Heritage status in 1999.

The Forth Bridge

I remember as a bairn drawing and painting the bridge with a steam train going over it, but the train going over the "bumps!"

One of our most iconic and beloved bridges, the Forth Bridge was named a World Heritage Site in 2015 just after its 125th anniversary. The bridge was one of the most ambitious projects of its kind ever attempted at the time. When it opened it had the longest single cantilever bridge span in the world.

New Lanark

The last mill closed in the 1960s but a restoration programme saved the 18th-century village from falling into dilapidation.

It is an early example of utopian socialism in Scotland as well as a planned settlement – making New Lanark an important milestone in the historical development of urban planning. I have never visited, I must say I much prefer my ruined castles and abbeys.

[portraitsofsaints]

Saint Magnus Erlendsson

1080-1115

Feast Day: April 16

Patronage: Orkney Island

Saint Magnus Erlendsson was a Scottish Viking convert known for his piety and gentleness. The rule of the Island of Orkney was divided between St. Magnus and his cousin Haakon, that ended in enmity and the death of Magnus. As Magnus was struck by an ax deathblow, he forgave his cousin. A field of wildflowers grew where he lay and a “holy light and heavenly fragrance” came over his tomb where many are healed by visiting his grave.

Prints, plaques & holy cards available for purchase here: (website)

[bestiarium]

The Stronsay Beast [modern cryptid; globster]

In September of 1808, a strange marine creature washed ashore on a beach of Stronsay in the Scottish Orkney Islands (at the time, the island was called Stronsa). It resembled no known animal, having six arms, paws or wings, which were about 4.5 feet (1.4m) long and resembled plucked goose wings. When the news reached universities and scientific institutions, anatomists were called upon to visit the carcass and find out what kind of animal it was. Unfortunately, by the time these scientific men reached the ‘Stronsay Beast’ – as people had taken to calling it – the corpse was decomposed and weathered beyond repair. Few biological traits remained recognizable, so eyewitnesses were called upon to describe what the creature had looked like.

According to these eyewitness reports, the creature was about 55 feet (16.8m) long when it washed ashore and had a long and thin neck. At the end of the tail was something resembling an ear.

Scientists were puzzled, and some were of the opinion that this creature must have been a sea serpent, whose existence was considered plausible by many at the time. Spearheading them was John Barclay, a respected professor in anatomy at Edinburgh University who adamantly claimed that the carcass was the first solid evidence of the existence of giant sea serpents. His opinion was opposed by Everard Home, sergeant-surgeon and lecturer in surgery and anatomy at London’s Royal College of Surgeons. He did not believe in great sea snakes and claimed that the ‘beast’ was simply the torn and shredded carcass of a basking shark. He dismissed the eyewitnesses as unscientific and relied only on the shape of the bones that were found within the corpse.

During the discussions on the nature of the beast, reverend Donald Maclean entered the stage and claimed to have seen the creature alive in June, several months before it washed ashore, near the coast of the island Coll. The reverend claimed that the creature had a small neck with a broad, somewhat oval-shaped head that looked at his ship. Alarmed by the approaching animal, the boat was steered towards the shore. Eventually, the water became too shallow for the large creature and it returned to the open waters. The reverend also estimated that the creature was about 70 to 80 feet long (21 to 24m), which is much larger than the corpse on the beach. Additionally, he claimed to have questioned the crews of several fishing vessels that supposedly also encountered the creature. According to these reports, the monster had a head as big as a small boat with big eyes as large as plates. Although it looked terrifying, the creature did not attack.

Eventually, belief in the existence of giant sea snakes died out (at least within the scientific community) and Barclay’s conclusion was no longer taken seriously. Today, biologists agree with Home that the creature must have been a dead basking shark, or rather the damaged remains of one.

Source: Jenkins, B., 2022, The ‘Stronsay Beast’: testimony, evidence and authority in early nineteenth-century natural history, The Royal Society Journal of the History of Science, 0, published online. (image source 1: MechaDaveO on Deviantart) (image 2: Home’s drawing of a basking shark compared to a reconstruction of the Stronsay Beast based on eyewitness reports, on the same scale. Image source: Phil. Trans. R. Society of London, 99, 206-220 (1809).)

[gwydpolls]

Time Travel Question 24: Ancient History XII and Earlier

These Questions are the result of suggestions from the previous iteration.

This category may include suggestions made too late to fall into the correct grouping.

Please add new suggestions below if you have them for future consideration. All cultures and time periods welcome.

[aerkame]

Oh my gosh the shell necklaces are so cool but also really fucked up!! Like imagine if y/n was given a shell necklace or found a shell they liked and someone made a necklace for them and at first they’re like “Aww this is so sweet! Despite being stuck here for now, everyone in this island is so nice! This necklace is so pretty!” Only to then try and leave or escape once they healed up or something and then find out the curse behind the necklace

Yep, anything finfolk related is usually pretty messed both in this AU and also in finfolk folklore (Orkney folklore). The only difference with the AU and folklore is that I actually want the neighbors in the AU have some mercy or be a lot nicer than what they would be when it comes to having a new neighbor. Or in other words, they really do love the dear reader but they aren't going to let them go either...even if it hurts.

When you think about it, it's actually double the amount of shock really. First the potion with forced transformation or lack thereof, and now a necklace that prevents the wearer from leaving when they try to leave. It knows what the wearer's intentions are, but that doesn't mean that whatever or whoever magic is in it can't be tricked.

One could attempt to trick their own thoughts and feelings as they leave the island under their own assumption that they will return in a few days, and they could also maybe potentially take it off by tricking themselves into thinking they want to wash off is all (and then leave the necklace behind by "accident"). But those plans could end up ruined if the person isn't careful not to mention that would require a lot of mental gymnastics. The necklace can sometimes be a tracker in a way for the finfolk. The second the wearer strays too far from the island is when most likely Eddie, Howdy, or Barnaby go out there to retrieve the stray neighbor. It depends who is closer really.

Don't get me wrong, the reader would probably be allowed to "leave" the island to explore places or do very short visits to the mainland, but they can't truly leave it behind no matter what they do.

[apersonwholikeslotus]

The Visit

Y'all guess who's back to writing (finally); everyone say thank you to @hetagrammy for talking to me about IreNor which made me want to write again and for beta reading; she is a person of many talents.

Welcome back to world building the fics, couple of notes + human names;

Because I can I hc Faroe and Iceland as Norway & Ireland's kids; Alisdair has right to be worried he's not just an asshole.

Alisdair = Scotland Molly (or Máire) = Ireland Sigurd = Norway Ida = Faroe Islands

TW: for references to domestic/sexual abuse (character accusing another of it, nothing is actually happening)

ao3 link here

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been too long since Alisdair had seen his sister, a couple decades at least. He didn’t even know where she was living, what she was up to, if she were even alive. When you knew as many people as centuries of life could afford you it was easier to find someone though, he assumed she was living in an abbey still; which one he wasn’t sure but that was his first guess to start looking. That was the clue he had given: his sister Máire, she lived in an abbey, made her living writing manuscripts. Even threw in her goldsmithing hobby, and a rough description based off the last time he had seen her. As he was sure there were a thousand Máire’s who helped write manuscripts in Ireland alone.

This wasn’t what he expected, out of all the places in Ireland, Dublin, a viking settlement, was the last place he expected to find her. He had heard of the city, which seemed to be a rather large hub for the Scandinavians now. He couldn’t believe how many boats were in the harbor, they lined up endlessly. He remembered one of the last conversations he had with her, he had half begged her to stay away from the coasts; convinced himself the farther inland she was the safer she would be. As usual anything he, or Dylan, asked of her spurred her to do the absolute opposite. Considering this is where she was living maybe Arthur had asked her to stay away from the coasts as well, she would happily let herself get captured if it meant spiting Arthur. 

He kept his head down, not wanting to draw attention with all of them around here. Reasonably he didn’t trust these people, he had already lost Shetland, Orkney, Caithness, and Sutherland; not to mention the Isle of Mann. Four girls and a boy, all fathered by the Norse personification and promptly left behind. It wasn’t uncommon for nations to leave their children in their own land until they were older; didn’t mean he had to like how recklessly he had them; nor did it mean he couldn’t feel bad for the bairns.

He came to the house he had been told; it took far longer than he expected, and had to go through what seemed half the clergy in the country before someone knew where she was. Only finally finding out from a priest that seemed ten years too old to be alive, but here he was. It was on the outside of the city, a small house looking like it wasn’t made to be a long term shelter, there was a small area of farmland around it. He opened the gate making sure to close it behind him so the chickens that milled about wouldn’t get out. A cat sat on top of an overturned crate, gazing over him lazily. That surprised him, Molly had never been much of a cat person preferring dogs, said they were more useful. 

He dusted himself off as he stood at the door, he didn’t need Molly immediately scolding him over his appearance. He knocked heavily, she tended to daydream and not hear things too lost in whatever she was doing. He didn’t want to just walk in either lest he scare her, or he had the wrong house. The wrong Máire. He hoped not. 

The door opened, he smiled expecting his sister. Expecting for her to throw herself into his arms for a hug, they had never been apart for so long he was so excited to see her. His face fell, instead of his sister stood a man, just barely taller than him, blond with blue eyes, dressed as a northmen. The Northman, Sigurd, the source of all his troubles stood in front of him. Molly must have been here, it was too much of a coincidence there is no way he was here and she was not at some point. 

“Where is she” 

“No hello?” it infuriated him how calm the other was, Sigurd was always infuriatingly calm, even when facing Alisdair. 

“Where is my sister?” Alisdair started again, his voice firm but loud, “Where is Molly? What have you done with her, you heathen?!” he spat the word in his face. 

Sigurd looked upset, but was nowhere near losing his temper as Alisdair was, “She is fine, and I do not–” 

“She can not be fine if you are in her house I–” Alisdair stopped, a small voice, clearly inquisitive, asking something. He looked down, a child no older than four, maybe five clung to Sigurd’s leg. He was going to brush her presence off, Sigurd had plenty of bastards, all of which deserved to hear the truth about their father regardless of age. His gaze lingered on her just long enough for her to look up at him. He froze suddenly, the girl was blonde and blue eyed, just as her father was; but the shape of her face, the way the frizzy curls framed her face… that was Molly. Sigurd must have noted his new interest and he shooed her away. Alisdair’s trance broke as he watched her go. 

“Where is my sister?” he demanded again, this time peering over Sigurd’s shoulder trying to see into the house. He wanted to see the girl again, he wanted to see her closer, that had to be his sister's child. 

“I already told you” He stepped to the side to block Alisdair’s view, “She is fine, why are you looking for her?” 

“I’m not allowed to see her?” 

“I didn’t say that” 

“Then where is-” 

“Sigurd? Who’s at the door?” He froze, moments away from pushing the other man out of the doorway to get into the house. The voice was Molly's. He needed to see her, he needed to know she was okay, he needed her alone, he needed to know she wasn’t being kept with him against her will. 

Sigurd stepped to the side so Alisdair could see in the house, Molly came into view and seeing her face took some of his anxiety away knowing she was okay. Knowing she seemed unhurt. The relief was short-lived, his eyes fell on the small girl he had just seen now rested on her hip, he froze seeing her swollen stomach. 

Molly froze, she just stared at him for a moment, he tried to decide if that was a good thing or not.  “Alisdair!” the hesitation morphed into an almost forced looking smile, there was a panic in her eyes that he knew shouldn’t be there. “I thought I heard your voice, but I didn’t want to hope too much!” 

She moved as quickly as she could over to him, she handed the child to Sigurd and hugged Alisdair tightly, his eyes didn’t move from Sigurd, he put his arm around Molly not in a hug, but as if he were trying to protect her. It was impossible to not assume what he was, the stories he heard, the things he had seen, he wanted him dead. Everything played out in his head, he couldn’t touch him while he was holding her; the girl was at no fault for her fathers actions. 

Molly let go of him, though she stayed close, smiling up at him. “I swear it seems you’ve gotten older since we last saw each other, you have to tell me everything, how are you? How are Arthur and Dylan?” 

He opened his mouth to answer, but every thing that came to mind had to do with what was in front of him. Her smile wavered, she was always good at knowing what he was thinking, “Silly me, you’re probably exhausted, come in, come in, we can talk later” she hugged him again quickly, this time taking the chance to whisper “wait til Ida goes to bed” 

He tensed once she let go, swallowing heavily, he assumed Ida was the girl. He nodded, but put his gaze back on Sigurd. He couldn’t help but take note of how heavily Molly kept her grip on him as she pulled him into the house, how she kept her distance from Sigurd, how she had whispered instead of asking aloud. Every instinct screaming to get Molly and Ida away from him. But he stayed quiet as Molly took her daughter back from Sigurd. 

“Mo réaltín,” Molly held the girl up a bit to be closer to eye level with him, “meet your uncle Alisdair.” 

~~~~~~~~~

The sun had set long ago, Alisdair sat watching his sister, Molly looked exhausted, her head rested on Sigurd’s shoulder, his arm around her. It infuriated Alisdair, he hadn’t gotten an answer yet, he hadn’t been given reasons to not kill Sigurd where he stood. If he threw him in the sea, it would take him longer to come back. The only punishment Alisdair could see fit for what he had done to her. 

“She’s long asleep” Alisdair commented, hoping to spur the conversation. He had spent all day with the small girl going on about all the things she liked (playing tag with the children down the road, the pictures in the windows at church, when her father told her stories about the gods); her favorite foods (pickled fish among them); the names of all the chickens (though she noted she preferred the sheep). It was easier to talk to the niece he didn’t know existed, ignore how she had her fathers nose, and her smile was too much like the Danes’. Ignore how she spoke Norse, and stumbled over the bit of Irish she proudly tried to speak to him in. 

Molly sat up a bit, she looked over at Alisdair, “what do we need to talk about?” 

He hesitated, he knew she knew, “can we go somewhere else?” 

“I’ll leave” Sigurd said instead, “I’m not making my pregnant wife go outside at this hour” 

“Wife?” It pissed him off hearing him refer to her that way, he spoke as if Molly weren’t in the room “My sister wouldn’t marry a pagan, much less willingly carry his children.” 

“But she did, and she is, so apparently you don’t know her that well.” Sigurd didn’t move from Molly’s side, he felt he held more power over Alisdair with her in his arms. “And I don’t like what you're implying about me” 

“I’ll say whatever I want about you because I know the truth.” 

“And what is the truth?” 

“I know what you viking are like.” Alisdair stated it plainly, “You show up, and take what you want without asking. That’s what you did with her; you were tired of just trinkets, jealous of your men getting to take whoever they wanted.” 

“Alisdair, sto-” she started but before being able to get anything beyond his name out was cut off. 

“And you knew the best way to make her stay with you was to have something to hang over her head,” he threw one of his hands towards the other half of the house where Ida was asleep, before gesturing to Molly, clearly trying to accentuate her current state. “You would have a dozen children just to keep her with you” 

Sigurd’s face barely changed, but Molly could feel him tense. He sat up straighter, his jaw clenched tight enough she could hear him grinding his teeth to keep himself from saying anything, 

Molly knew Sigurd wouldn’t say anything, he wasn’t a pushover but he wouldn’t want to distress her or wake up Ida either. He would hold his tongue until morning. She stood suddenly, “Alisdair, outside. Now.” She turned to Sigurd, assuring him a small walk wouldn’t kill her. To spite her brother she took his fur with her, pulling the oversized garment over her shoulders as she followed Alisdair outside.

As soon as the door closed behind her she faced him fury in her eyes “What the fuck was that” 

“Molly you don’t have to pretend to—“ 

“I’m not pretending anything!” She huffed loudly, “He is my husband, I love him, he hasn’t done anything I didn’t give him permission to.”

Alisdair was desperate to get her to admit something, anything to prove Sigurd had done something to her, that he wasn’t just being rash. “How do I know you're not saying that because he’s still right there?” 

She huffed stalking off expecting him to follow her, he did right at her heels. Admittedly he was having a hard time keeping up with her, which was embarrassing to admit considering she was at least six months along already. 

They were well out of hearing distance when she started talking again, repeating her earlier statement: “Sigurd is my husband, I love him, he hasn’t done anything without my permission. We didn’t plan Ida, or this baby, but I love being a mother and he’s a wonderful father.” 

A silence fell over them, as they kept walking. Alisdair knew Molly had no reason to lie to him, not when he wasn’t around to hear her. But he couldn’t believe she would fall for him, he couldn’t rationalize with everything that had happened that she would be okay being with him. 

“We can wait a few weeks so he doesn’t suspect, we’ll leave in the middle of the night, I’ll carry Ida so she doesn’t wake up. He won’t know we’re gone until–” he ignored everything she said. He didn’t think she was genuine, something must be wrong. 

“Alisdair.” She stopped suddenly, turning to face him, “I’m in no condition to travel, and even if I was I wouldn’t go with you” 

“I’ll come back for you in a few months then.” 

Molly went quiet looking up at her brother, she didn’t know how to tell him what she needed to. “I’m not going to be here in a few months.” 

“You’re going back to Norway with him?” 

“No. Once summer comes, and once he’s able to go get the rest of his children we’re all leaving for Iceland.” 

“No.” he didn’t even need to think about it, he wasn’t going that far away, he wasn’t letting her go that far from home. He wouldn’t be able to check on her, he wouldn’t be able to come get her if something happened. 

She sighed, “You know that means nothing,” she turned around going back to the house, “I’m going with him, I’m sorry you don’t trust him, but you can’t throw accusations around, especially after he’s been nothing but kind to me” 

“Nothing but kind?” if Alisdair wasn’t so angry he would have laughed. “You call what his people do to you, to me, kindness?” 

Molly stopped, she looked at the ground sighing. She faced him, but didn’t move any closer, “Seventy years ago now there was a raid on the Abbey I was living in. For some reason or another they decided I wasn’t to die with everyone else and brought me here…” 

Alisdair thought he had it, he thought he had his gotcha. That Molly was finally admitting the horrible things he had done to her. 

“Sigurd paid them off and let me go back about my business, not asking anything in return. That is what I call kindness, Alisdair.” Molly sighed, “It’s been too long, because you think I’m stupid now, enough so to let a man manipulate me into things, even if he had forced Ida on me I would have found a way out for both of us. You should know that.” 

Alisdair was taken aback, he hadn’t been trying to imply Molly to not know what she was doing. His assumptions had nothing to do with her, everything to do with him. He just got here, he had only seen her for a day. He thought he would show up and Molly would still be the same as the last time he had seen her, he thought she would still be his little sister and nothing more; he supposes he wasn’t always right though. 

“I know I won’t be able to stop you; but I can’t stay around if you’re going with him.” 

“I can’t say I’m surprised.” They stopped in front of the house, “But I was hoping you would be around when the baby came.” She opened the front gate not looking at him, “you are welcome to stay for a few days, but I expect you to apologize to Sigurd if you do” 

“I’ll find somewhere else then.” 

Molly nodded, “I’ll get your things then, he may not want you in his house if you don’t plan on taking anything back.” 

“Wait.” Molly stopped looking at him, he came here to check on her. She might be insisting she was fine, but he didn’t trust Sigurd, he couldn’t start trusting him just on Molly’s word either. He couldn’t help but feel as though he was admitting defeat, but… “If I apologize you’ll let me stay?” 

“I will,” she shrugged, “But you’ll have to see what he says” 

“I’ll stay, if I’m allowed.”

[rumbelleshowdown]

Author: Rose Daughter

Prompts: Every day. Monster, fear, cold sweat. Celebrity.

Group: B

-

Tomorrow

“You’re late, dearie.”

Belle jolts, whirling around, her feet skidding on the shelf of wet rock. She manages to keep her balance, wobbling on the edge of the crystalline pool. Two dark eyes bob above the water, sharp and observant, unsympathetic to her flailing.

“I’ve told you not to sneak up on me like that,” she huffs.

The creature lifts further out of the water, looking menacing with his mane of matted curls hanging in his face. Then, he shakes his head like a wet dog and grins.

“Your lack of spa-cial aware-ness has naught to do with me.”

The words are stodgy in his mouth, so he pronounces them slowly. These were acquired from the book she read aloud to him yesterday. Rumple’s mind was a funny wee lagoon; when she cast new words into it, they usually resurfaced as ammunition to tease her.

He slithers to the pool’s edge, moving through the water like an eel. He props his elbows up on the rocks.

“You’re late,” he says again.

“How can you even tell?”

His crocodilian eyes shift to a silver pocket watch that dangles from a knobbly finger of overhanging rock. It looks suspiciously like the one that used to hang from a fob on Jefferson’s waistcoat.

Belle’s lips press into a thin line. “Yes, well, it’s becoming quite tricky to leave my house without being badgered about another ‘recovery mission’. I think I might need to start charging for my services. You’re becoming too…popular in the village.”

Notorious is a more appropriate term, but she knows he would enjoy that label far too much.

It is not uncommon to see Finfolk off the coast of the Orkney Islands. It is, however, unheard of to catch more than a glimpse of talon and tail as they steal a fish off the end of your line. They don’t linger near the shore. And they certainly don’t take up residence in a grotto at the base of the headland, transforming the limestone ledges into a personal museum of pilfered trinkets.

“I hear you’ve been tipping rowboats again,” she says.

“Shouldn’t have rowed so close to the cave,” he trills, “Def-ini-tely shouldn’t have been out on the water if you don’t know how to swim.”

Rumple’s behavior has elevated him from overgrown sardine to local celebrity; a spectacle at the best of times and a menace at the worst. And when Belle’s routine visits to the grotto became public knowledge, the villagers thrust a title upon her as well. Hostage negotiator.

She scans the cave, searching for possible new additions to his hoard. She feels like she’s playing one of those ‘spot the difference’ games they print on children’s menus. Ah, there. Coiled around a stalagmite is a heart-shaped locket, its ruby pendant winking in the reflection of the pool.

“You know, Miss Lucas used to have a necklace just like that. She took it off to swim one afternoon and, by the time she’d paddled back to the docks, it had vanished.”

“Extra-ordin-ary coincidence.” His expression might have looked innocent on a small boy or a puppy, but it only succeeds in making him look all the more devilish.

Belle shakes her head and bends down to unravel the locket. She pockets it, ignoring his cry of protest.

“And I’m going to need the tackle box you nicked from Marco’s boat.”

He scowls up at her. She can just imagine his tail flicking with irritation. He must have known she’d come asking for that particular prize, as he’d stashed it beneath the water rather than displaying it above.

“What if I trade you for it?” she offers.

His gaze darts to the basket cradled in the crook of her arm. His furrowed brow gives a faint twitch, his resolve instantly weakening. Hook. Line. Sinker.

With a profane grumble, he ducks back under the water. His vocabulary has been increasing in color ever since he started spying on the sailors at the docks.

Belle watches him disappear into the deep as she sits down at the pool’s edge and begins unlacing her boots. She has learned the hard way that heels have rubbish traction.

Some say that jewelry and fishing gear aren’t all that the Fin like to steal. The villagers tell tales of those that have been ferried away to a kingdom beneath the waves. The legends serve as requiems for the men and women who were dragged to the depths and eternally imprisoned in unlawful marriages to the Fins that snatched them. Belle thinks that’s nonsense. The Finfolk detest humans and – typically – want as little to do with them as possible. It would be like kidnapping a cockroach from the gutter to keep as a pet.

Still, the superstition persists. Even when begging her to rescue his tackle box from the sea beast’s lair, Marco had cautioned, “Be careful, girl. He’ll steal you too, if he gets the chance.”

Belle dips her toes into the cool water. Marco’s words echo in her mind as she feels a clawed hand latch onto her ankle. Her scream bounces off the cave walls. Rumple’s head breaches the water’s surface again, eyes glinting with wicked glee.

“…for…for god’s sake, Rumple,” she gasps, pressing her hand over her chest, trying to work her heart out of her throat.

He laughs, baring two rows of razor-sharp teeth. She’s reminded of what a terror he must be to unsuspecting fishermen.

His grin wanes when it comes time to surrender his treasure. Rumple reluctantly hands over the tackle box, looking so forlorn that she almost regrets taking it from him. She knows how enamored he is with the little lures and bobbers.

He plants both hands on the rock and, lean muscles straining, heaves himself up onto the rim beside her. His tail hits the stone with a wet slap.

No artist has ever truly rendered the ethereal beauty of a Fin. They refuse to be pinned to a canvas and captured in a frame. There is no shade of paint that can reproduce the exact green-gold color of their tails, nor their iridescent quality in the sunlight. Belle’s eyes follow the scales up his body to where they become a smattering over his belly, just about where most human men have a trail of fine hair.

Aware of where her eyes are fixed, Rumple reaches for the basket with both hands like an impatient child. Her reflexes are a tad quicker and she slides it out of reach.

“No. Don’t grab. It’s not polite.”

He gives her a rude gesture – something else he undoubtedly picked up from the sailors. The effect is somewhat less potent with his webbed fingers.

After the thermos of hot chocolate had gone down so well last week, Belle suspects his serrated teeth might be quite sweet. She produces a small bundle from the basket, unwrapping the gingham handkerchief to reveal a crumbly stack of homemade shortbread. Rumple peers at it, captivated as the scent of honey and coriander hits his nose.

“Dry your hands first or it’ll go all mushy.”

Rumple does dry his hands; not on the handkerchief, but on her jumper, his talons snagging the woolen yellow fibers on her sleeve. He swipes a wedge before she can delay him any longer.

He takes a small, suspicious bite. She can tell the exact moment that the butter-rich biscuit dissolves on his tongue. His eyes go wide and he looks to her with such childlike delight, it makes her heart beat wildly against her rib cage.

“There are otters up the coastline. They have pups,” he says suddenly, as though trying to bolster his half of the trade. “I’ll take you to see them.”

“I’m not dressed for swimming.”

He rolls his eyes. That isn’t something he learned from the sailors. That is something he adopted from her.

“You can’t get these clothes wet, but you can put on different clothes speci-fic-ally to get wet?”

He wrinkles his nose indignantly. His derisive ‘urgh, humans’ is unspoken, but is heard all the same.

“I’ll wear something suitable tomorrow. You can bring me then.”

Tomorrow. He loves that word more than anything.

His sullen expression melts away. He leans in expectantly. Now, this is special. This is something he taught her. Belle meets him halfway, resting her forehead against his. His crooked nose presses into her cheek, their faces slotting together like two puzzle pieces. They stare at one another for a long, quiet moment. His lips twist into a lopsided smile and he pulls back.

That means, ‘I’m happy’. It means, ‘thank you’.

It means, ‘love you’.

Rumple’s tail thumps the rock again, splashing water over her legs, the droplets clinging to her calves like a sheen of cold sweat. She watches him examine a second piece of shortbread like it’s made of solid gold.

‘Yes, tomorrow’, Belle thinks, smiling down at where his fin grazes her ankles.

‘Perhaps he’ll steal me tomorrow.’

-

[rock-cedar-mosquito]

From south to north! Twelve hours by train and an hour by plane to Kirkwall in Orkney, which is not a place I've ever visited before. I generally get along well with islands, though.

[docholligay]

Ah, @morkaischosen​ there is no genuine frustration quite like being a fan of the mid-60s British sportscar.

Unfortunately, I am that, and that is me. Noted car lesbian Doctor Holligay, Esq, Phd, fucking loves the mid-60s Brits. Actually my FIL, who’s from Leicestershire, decided he liked me based on the fact that we were visiting my wife’s folks in Oklahoma and pulled up to a gas station where there was an old Jag out front, and I look at Guy and go, “What’d’you figure that is? ‘72? Based on the grille?” Immediate hearteyes.

Anyway, for my money the Uk in the 1960s had some of the most beautiful cars on the market. The e-type Jag, of course, and everyone creams themselves over that era of Aston Martin, but I mean even the Lotus Elan, stuff that Triumph was coming out with, or MG,  is some of my absolute favorite stuff in the automotive world.

My dream car is actually not a super spendy wildass classic but a car that can be had quite reasonably (for the collector world. It can be had for between $19,000 and $30,000 USd depending on year and all that)

That’s a 67, but I would take a pretty wide range of years. I will not get started on my feelings about this car but please know they are potent.

Anyway. The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, making God’s most beautiful cars. Outpacing the Americans in style if not in power, outpacing the Italians in affordability and manufacturing volume. Jaguar, Triumph and MG in particular selling a lot in imports to the US. Killin’ it. Should have been a major world power in at least the luxury car game eternally*.

Defeat snatched from the jaws of victory, it is!

How it all happened is a lot of speculation and some heavy finger-pointing and honestly, it’s a lot of factors, but a solid chunk of what it ended up coming down to is the UK going, “I am going to make a car that is SO unreliable” and, oh, 70% of the trouble with them is the electrical harness. Some of them you find now have had the whole thing reharnessed, which is what I would do if I bought one--frankly the things I would do to the car would probably cost more than the car itself--but yeah, chasing an electrical problem in a car, even an older one that doesn’t have electrical everything, is like chasing ghosts, and very difficult and costly to fix. The engines also are not great and the brakes are made of like, pop cans and dreams.

We have a guy in autocross with a gorgeous Triumph TR4, and every time he brings it out, the whole group goes, “Oh shit! It’s running!” and he laughs like, “Yeah, today.” It’s just a fairly well known thing with vintage British cars moreso than, say, a 60s American or German car.

And this gentleman in his Absolutely Not a Living Room This Is a Coffee Shop in the Orkneys was ALSO aware of this difficulty and we had a good laugh about it, and about how we were both born in the wrong country to have the thing we love best of all cheaply. (I assume you can get an MG Midge just like, on the side of the road in the Uk)

*One could argue that McLaren is certainly trying, though they are mostly supercars which is a slightly different animal but I won’t quibble. Lotus has certainly attempted, but they’ve never gotten the toehold of the Italians, which is a shame. I’m obsessed with Noble, but they have a very small market share. Anyway, the UK is not widely considered a major player in this game in the way Italy or Japan or America is any longer.

[scotianostra]

On April 14th 1578 James Hepburn, 4th Earl of Bothwell , Earl of Orkney and third husband of Mary Queen of Scots died, aged 44, tied to a post in a dungeon at, Denmark.

As I posted on Friday Bothwell fled Scotland after the surrender at Carberry Hill, Queen Mary’s last act of love for him was guaranteeing he could leave the area unharmed.

Bothwell took ship from Aberdeen to Shetland, he may have stopped off in Orkney, the only thing we know is he was denied refuge there and travelled on to Shetland.

He was pursued by Sir William Kirkcaldy of Grange and William Murray of Tullibardine who it seems were not that far behind him. They sailed into Bressay Sound near Lerwick. Four of Bothwell’s ships in the Sound set sail north to Unst where Hepburn and his cousin, the pirate, Olaf Sinclair were negotiating with German captains to hire more ships. Kirkcaldy’s flagship The Lion, chased one of Bothwell’s ships, and both ships were damaged on a submerged rock.

Bothwell sent his treasure ship to Scalloway and fought a three-hour-long sea battle off the Port of Unst where the mast of one of his ships was shot away. During the chase a storm erupted and Bothwell’s superior seamanship to come to his rescue. After transferring his men to his two remaining ships, he sailed south-east before the wind, making the 250-mile crossing in record time Although Kirkcaldy followed for sixty miles, he was out-sailed and, by his own admission, was ‘no good seaman’.

He might have thought he was off the hook again, but no, Frederick II was not sympathetic to his cause, he was at war, and was torn between his blood ties to Mary Queen of Scots and the need to show loyalty to his Protestant allies. Fortunately for him, the problem solved itself when Mary, held prisoner in England, dissolved her marriage to Bothwell, making him merely a problem to be got rid of from Frederik’s perspective, so he ordered his arrest to be used as a bargaining chip in the forlorn hope that he would be traded in return for the return of the Northern Isle!

After being brought before the Bergen magistrates, in September he was carried to Copenhagen on one of Frederick’s ships for ‘honourable confinement’ at Dragshorn Castle, the Scandinavian equivalent of the Tower Of London. I found an extract from My Heart is My Own, a biography on Mary Queen of Scots that reads

“On 14th April 1578, Bothwell died at Dragsholm. As was customary for state prisoners, his body was carried to the promontory that juts into the fjord a side of things. mile or so from the castle and buried at the parish church of Fårevejle. (…) “

There are differing versions on how he lived out his last days, one says he was actually not held in ‘honourable confinement’, but in a small dungeon chained to a post, the cell so small he was unable to stand, the second is more in the line of the ‘honourable confinement’ that he spent the last years drinking to excess with others held at the castle and gradually became more and more insane.

John Maxwell, visited Dragshorn Castle, and reported that Hepburn had latterly become overgrown with hair and filth. I take it from this he was still alive at the time!

The story doesn’t quite end there, Bothwell’s coffin was opened for the first time in 1868 and a very well-preserved body was found, which subsequently rapidly decayed and, for a period of time, until 1973, was open to public viewing under a glass lid. Then, in response to a request from the descendants of the Hepburn family, the newly-crowned Margrethe II had Bothwell buried in a zinc-lined coffin within a sarcophagus of oak, and here he remains.

Every now and then there is a story in the press about his descendents making an attempt for his body to be repatriated, I have no idea why the Danes would not allow this and for the moment he remains there. Of course with a story like this the castle is said to be haunted by the "good” Earl, where is he said to ride through the courtyard with a full horse and carriage.

The pictures are, the supposed head of Bothwell “ Study of Mummified Head” by Danish artist Otto Bache. The even more gruesome “body of James Hepburn” although the church where his supposed remains lie was known to have exhibited several bodies over the years as his, therefore, it is impossible to know if this is actually him.

There have been moves by his descendants to have his body repatriated through the years Speaking in 2010 Sir Alastair Buchan-Hepburn, Bothwell's direct descendant sought to raise funds to lobby the Scottish and Danish governments, saying "I want the Scottish culture minister to get in touch with his Danish counterpart to ask him 'would you please consider to return the body of James Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell?'"

James Hepburn, 4th Earl of Bothwells’ remains are now kept in the crypt at the church at Faravejle, near Dragsholm Castle, as seen in the last pic.

[portraitsofsaints]

Saint Magnus Erlendsson 1080-1115 Feast Day: April 16 Patronage: Orkney Island

Saint Magnus Erlendsson was a Scottish Viking convert known for his piety and gentleness. The rule of the Island of Orkney was divided between St. Magnus and his cousin Haakon, that ended in enmity and the death of Magnus. As Magnus was struck by an ax deathblow, he forgave his cousin. A field of wildflowers grew where he lay and a “holy light and heavenly fragrance” came over his tomb where many are healed by visiting his grave.

Prints, plaques & holy cards are available for purchase here:{website}

[chazzaroo47]

In the kindest, most positive way possible, your Etsy work is like stepping into a small cabin thrift shop just barely on the edge of the woods, away from the rest of the mountain town.

Where an elderly woman wrapped in a beautiful purple shawl with some sort of raven, woodsy, design on the edges clasps her hands together with a wry smile as soon as a patron steps on the premise, a quaint bell chiming following the door opening.

"Ah! Welcome my dear, I've been expecting you" she'll exclaim.

It smells of lavender, the store is warm, but not hot. A nice distinction from the icy air outside.

You don't know if she's telling the truth, but nevertheless you smile and carefully look around.

Carefully running your hand along the necklaces, assorted jewelry and little trinkets.

A card stand catches your eye, but you have plenty you need to use up at home.

From the cool toned blue bead and metal bracelet with a glass heart charm, to the warm Sparkly fawn glass and wood bead coil bracelet, the variety is endless yet each piece is so distinctly made by the same person.

Just as the others before, you end up circling the store again and again, almost methodically, there's always something you seemed to have missed no matter how carefully you observe.

Where did those knitted hats come from?

That bracelet wasn't in that place just a moment ago!

Such a particularly peaceful aura that you can't help but continue to explore, such a small cabin feeling like its own adventure. A place where you genuinely feel only calm and happiness, a store truly deserving of the word safe.

Eventually you'll sit in a nice antique chair across from her, the owner.

Maybe you talk nonstop, even though you're usually quite shy or quiet.

Or maybe you find yourself listening intently to her stories and tales, though you wouldn't in any other situation.

Her baked goods delightfully creating a perfect mix of melancholy nostalgia, like a memory of Christmas as a small child. Perhaps running to your mom as she rocks in her favorite chair because the storm is frighteningly loud, in her warm embrace you're wrapped and all is okay.

No matter what it is, by the time you leave, you know the shopkeeper awaits again for your visit.

So strange though, you hadn't bought anything, but just a few days after, walking out the door to retrieve the mail, your eye catches a bracelet tied around your front door knob.

It just didn't feel right to remove it, something about it brings way more good than not, you decide.

She happily hums back in her workshop, weaving the next protection charm as the bell rings again.

Oh my goodness, thank you. You'll have me falling off my perch in delight, that's so kind!

The shop is very, very influenced by the islands and the wilderness of Orkney and I'm delighted to hear that the magic comes through. Much as it's extremely hard to get there sometimes (so much ferry trouble this month!) it's incredibly worth it to visit should you ever get a chance.

In terms of the witchieness, well, yeah that's not too unexpected for the islands either hehe. They're a very mystic sort of place that absolutely would leave gifts, if it was so inclined.

[himboskywalker]

can I ask what it so inaccurate about Outlander? I ask in good faith it just always struck me as one of the more historically accurate shows

The topic of Scottish identity after 1689 through the Jacobite rebellions and then emigration from the Highlands and Islands to North Carolina was literally my master’s thesis topic lmao So I will try and keep this as brief as I humanly can when I quite literally wrote a book on it.

My primary issue with Outlander’s historical inaccuracies is my main issue with 99% of historic Scottish media,in that it grossly romanticized and subverts modern conceptions of nationality and patriotism on to people who did not think nor operate that way. Outlander is guilty of what nearly anything about the Jacobites does in that it totes them as Scottish nationalists and protectors of Gaelic culture against the forces of invading Anglicism. Media loves to portray them as Catholics,fierce Scottish patriots,and kilt wearing Highlanders fighting for their god given Celtic freedom.

The reality is far more complicated. Scots didn’t really conceive of themselves existing beyond the lens of British,even the Jacobite extremists. And by 1745 even Jacobites weren’t so much for the Stuarts and the ideal of Scottish separatism and individualism,nor were they majority Catholics,nor were they a bastion of Gaelic purity against the evils of the English Empire. The Scots were very much a part of the British Empire and were participants of its expansion,colonialism,and conceptions of identity. Scots did consider themselves to be Scottish,but also British,but also what county they were from,or what part of the highlands or islands. Of course the more remote you got the more distance and separation in how closely they considered themselves a part of Britain. There’s an account from a famous travel journal of a man visiting the Orkney islands like 7 years after William of Orange was on the throne,where the local islanders had no idea the Stuarts weren’t on the throne anymore and that rulership had changed. So of course place and key details of remoteness played a huge part in identity.

But the fact remains that even the Jacobites during this period weren’t like “I’m going to fight for Scottish independence from Britain and I love my motherland for my roots of Gaeldom and I’m going to wear my kilt as a symbol of my culture against the oppression of the English” *bagpipes plays* Many Scots did want separation and didn’t like the 1707 union,and yes after 1745 traditional highland culture was restricted. But we must also remember that even amongst Scottish separatists the Jacobites were considered extremists,and very few actually believed Charles should be king. Many simply wanted the separation of Scottish parliament,and for many others it was the same cries of unlawful taxation and oppression of a foreign king heard in the North American colonies only a couple decades later. The reality is that often that rebellion was born from political feuding,rather than cultural.

The romanticism comes from Walter Scott initially who in the early 1800s became famous for his romantic novels about the Scottish highlands and the Gaelic fight for freedom. Literally almost all of our modern conceptions of the 18th century Highlander comes from Scott and WOOL MILLS in LONDON in 1800 who invented the idea of clan tartans and the kilt as a symbol of Clan allegiance and Scottish nationalism. Identity in the 18th century was a murky and complicated thing,and the conceptions of Scottish and highland and specific clan affiliation and specific family houses were not necessarily in opposition to the conceptions of Britishness,nor was the idea of Anglicism conceived of being inherently bad or a corruption of Gaelic culture. Many hated the English sure,but the majority did not. The idea of protecting and revitalizing traditional Gaelic culture was a later invention,and while certainly many highlanders and islanders were proud of their culture and ways of life,those ways of life existed more from isolation and local evolution of identity and culture,rather than a universal highland and island conception of Scottishness or Gaelicness.

So in all,Outlander projects modern nationalism and romanticism on to the Scottish highlander. And yes they’re romance books,but the continuation of we as modern people projecting our own ideals and values to people in the past is a rampant issue for historians. It’s the same as our romanticism of the American Revolution and the complete false narrative of history that stems from that. The result is nearly an entire country who does not truly understand why our society exists as it does now. If you view the Jacobite rebellions or the American Revolution through a lens of brilliant patriots and nationalists fighting for their culture and freedom than there’s literally no way you can understand your own government or the history of your country accurately. Romanticism blinds the general public to the nuances and reality of history,and that reality grounds our political present and the current issues we all face.

[aerkame]

Since mermaids and sirens tend to be blamed due to Sally, and how they Finfolk behave in general, something tells me the Finfolk aren’t well liked by other sea mythical creatures much, huh?

Well, considering what finfolk are like in Orkney folklore (inrl not in the AU), no. Finfolk aren't well liked by other creatures, but no one can really do anything about them even if they were found to be lurking around and area. They're just too strong both magically and physically to take down. It doesn't help that they're usually in large groups.

Again, that's even if other creatures know they're around. These guys are shapeshifters. They can have any face, body, voice, or style. That sweet old grandma who visits the flower shop everyday could be one and you wouldn't even know it. One of the things that finfolk can turn into that I think is funny is clothes/fabrics. I did read as much as I could on that and it's a thing. apparently.