#Coals to Newcastle

[nostalgia-tblr]

Historical AU: one of your OTP is in Margaret Thatcher's cabinet and the other is a union leader at a small Welsh coal mine.

Will true love triumph over the forces of evil, or will UK heavy industry be destroyed almost entirely, causing ongoing generational poverty in many parts of the country?

(Rated Adult as some parts are not suitable for miners.)

[nando161mando]

Day 3 & 4 wrap up. Sustained action at the Newcastle Coal Port.

This is just the beginning... let's take matters into our own hands #BlockadeAustralia

[autisticbillpotts]

when the doctor who said the name of my home :3

[psygull]

get to know me

tagged by @vedurnan to fill this out and also tag 5 people i want to get to know better! i did this recently so now i've got to think of some people that i didn't tag in the other one. how about @chaumas-deactivated20230115 @lew-basnight @ashton-slashton @lostcryptids @airbus-a350

Last Song: Yü-gung (Fütter mein ego) by Einstürzende Neubauten. gotta move this big ass sheet of metal to the venue

Currently Reading: Utopia Avenue by David Mitchell still. it's such a fun book and i love the characters i just have to actually sit down and make myself read so it's slow going. hoping to actually get through more of it on vacation in maine. i was wanting to read Carrie as well there but it's got to go back to the library and bringing a Stephen King book to maine is like carrying coals to newcastle. got a silly 80s "ooohhhh d&d is reallllll and wants to hurt youuuuu" novel (Hobgoblin by John Coyne) from half price books yesterday so i'll probably bring that along too

Currently Watching: in the middle of like several tv show rewatches at the moment — Twin Peaks with my brother and my own personal very slow X-Files marathon. the plot is intricate enough and it's been so long since i've watched it that i'm thinking of restarting Dark again from the beginning. and i have been thinking about Limitless (my friend Limitless) recently

Current Obsession: yesterday on etsy i found this 3d printed "headphone stand" (just a bust, basically) of former president william howard taft and i have been thinking about him ever since. his stately presence would really tie a room together. mentally i hear the vine boom sound effect whenever i open the tab that contains him

[georgebbwbush]

the fact that the area southeast of seattle actually used to be coal country is a fun little fact that most people around here probably don't know

[autotrails]

American Auto Trail-Texas State Highway 120 (Throckmorton to Graham TX)

American Auto Trail-Texas State Highway 120 (Throckmorton to Graham TX) https://youtu.be/-FcBU_3Cfng This American auto trail explores what was originally designated as Texas State Highway 120, now today's U.S. Highway 380.

[pitch-and-moan]

Bringing Coal to the Choir

The story of the first attempts by Portuguese conquistadors to Catholicize the Saint Thomas Christians of southern India in the early 16th century. Basically it's a bunch of Christian Indians confused as to what the hell the Portuguese are talking about.

[cetaceous]

Coal Terminal #1, Kooragang Coal Terminal Newcastle, New South Wales, Australia, 2022

Uralkali Potash Mine #1, Berezniki, Russia, 2017

Photographs by Edward Burtynsky 'Burtynsky: Extraction/Abstraction', Saatchi Gallery, London image credit: Edward Burtynsky/Courtesy Flowers Gallery, London

[ltwilliammowett]

Wreck of the Alice A. Leigh or Rewa, New Zealand

The Rewa was once the largest sailing ship registered in New Zealand, originally named Alice A. Leigh (1889) and the 3,000 tonne vessel had 4 steel masts and 31 sails.

The barque had several adventures, she survived a collision with the German ship Rickmers, a minor mutiny in 1904 and, in 1914, made a very fast passage of 48 days for the 900 mile trip from Mexico to Newcastle. In October 1916, she was nearly sunk by the famous German submarine U-35 in the Mediterranean. Alice was sold in 1917 to the New York and Pacific Sailing Ship Co. Her last visit to Australia as the Alice A. Leigh was in 1920, she was the sold to George H. Scales Pacific Ltd. Of Wellington and renamed the REWA.

Her chequered history continued when she took a load of coal to Wellington, only to be embroiled in a waterfront dispute over the use of new equipment for unloading her cargo. She made her last major voyage to London via the Cape of Good Hope in 103 days, with a load of wool. She arrived in Auckland in August 1922 on her final voyage. In December 1922, the Auckland Harbour Board , ordered the REWA be removed to a harbour mooring and the proud 33 year sailing ship was ignominiously towed up the harbour to a mooring off Chelsea Wharf where for nearly 10 years she swung round her mooring, becoming more and more decrepit.

Rewa remained laid up off Northcote Point until April 1931 when Charles Hansen offered to purchase the REWA as she lay for 800pounds. Legend has it that he was “the front man” for a local syndicate, who wanted to circumvent the strict licensing and gambling laws of the day, by converting the REWA into a luxurious drinking and gambling establishment, linked to the mainland by fast motor boats. The REWA was towed by the steam tug Te Awhina to Moturekareka Island. The plan was to await high tide so that the 309 feet long ship could be positioned, to sit across the Bay on a sandbank, in a level position. Alas this did not happen , the Rewa slid off the sand bank, with the bow in shallow water, and the stern in deep water, tilted steeply over to port, totally unsuited for what the syndicate had intended.

And now my dears you know why not to rename a ship, nothing good comes out of it

[dailyoverview]

Large piles of coal await shipment on Kooragang Island, part of the Port of Newcastle in New South Wales, Australia. The island is one of the world's largest coal export facilities, with a capacity of at least 120 million tonnes per annum. In 2022, coal trading comprised more than 97% of revenue at the Port of Newcastle; however, the port plans to reduce this figure to 50% by 2030 and fully decarbonize by 2040.

-32.875306°, 151.767778°

Source imagery: Nearmap

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Immortal Beloved - A John Shelby/Vampire OFC Story.

Well, guys. It's happening. Kinda happening. Testing the waters, yep. We'll go with that. I'm not convinced it's any good despite my best efforts, so I thought I'd see what you thought by sharing the prologue. Who knows? You might love it and then I could feel a little much-needed cheer when I'm going through a bit of a black spot at present, but if not then I know I have to go away and work harder on it. Either way, your feedback matters to me, and I thank in advance those kind enough to leave it.

The story will differ slightly from canon here and there, as you will notice, but not so much that's unrecognisable. Slightly AU, shall we say!

Here we go!

Tag list - In the comments

Words - 1,956

Warnings - Adult themes + vampire content throughout. Minors DNI!

Prologue

He stumbled, muttering cusses that fluttered off to permeate the silence of the night, rooting his feet as he straightened, pulling his overcoat around himself more. The cobbles underfoot already twinkled with a smattering of frost, the air thick with winter mist and pungent coal smoke, John feeling his pale skin tremble. The bitter December cold greeted him with her usual sting upon that night.  

“Don’t get so pie-eyed that you don’t know what’s what, John. That goes for all of us.” 

John Shelby wasn’t always the most proficient at following orders, especially when a bad business day had led to his arrival at The Garrison, a decision to sink nine whiskies one after the other and six pints, thus leading to him sitting there sloshed and grinning.  

His troubles had been far behind him as he’d revelled in merriment, loudly championing to his cohorts exactly what he would like to do to Clara Bow, for instance, should he have the screen siren within his lustful clutches for long enough. He’d heeded Tommy’s advice to begin with, but on that day, the loss of over a grand thanks to a horse who should have lost, and a jockey with other ideas, his elder brother’s words of warning had fallen on deaf ears.  

“Fucking Rasmussen’s,” he muttered, sniffing as he at least attempted to walk up Watery Lane in a straight-ish line. “Bastards can fucking try and ‘ave me, but they won’t. Fucking Geordie cunts.”  

The Rasmussen’s, of the family Rasmussen, were a definite thorn in the side of anyone with the surname Shelby at that moment, the Newcastle criminal outfit currently making their presence known, and loudly. Barges that moved through the canal systems anywhere close to their areas within the north had been firebombed, their cargo sunk, Shelby bookmaking stands ransacked at the races, and threats to the family delivered with malicious intent; stay out of the north, or else.  

The Shelby’s were not the type to simply back off, though. They were the type to be on their guard against any reprisal attacks, vengeance against the kind of Shelby retribution the likes of which had - after quite the bloodied brawl - sent the Rasmussen’s scarpering from a race meet in Derby two weekend’s past.  

The family would not simply roll over and take the threat lying down, and neither would the Rasmussen’s. They were great in number, and where hand to hand strength lay, perhaps the most formidable in force that the Shelby’s had ever encountered. That strength did not seem normal, more deity gifted than naturally arising.  

They bred ‘em hard as nails in the north, apparently.  

As he staggered, lying down was exactly what John wished to be doing, once again standing to root his feet upon the slippery cobbles, looking up at a streetlamp which had begun to flicker slightly, the bulb then suddenly popping with an audible bang.  

First assuming a stray bullet had been responsible, it was just the sobering shock he needed to quickly take stock, his sky-blue eyes scanning the darkened street for any kind of movement through the thick fog, drawing himself up taller as his hand automatically hovered over the gun nestled within his ever-present holster. Bang, bang, bang, another three streetlamp bulbs all shattered, plunging the lane into darkness, John feeling the effects of the whiskey diminish as his senses prickled on high alert.  

He stood statuesque, his ears pricked, eyes still darting from left to right while his hand curled around the thick handle of the gun, primed, ready. They wouldn’t get the better of him, oh fuck no. He blinked, and a figure finally came into view a couple of hundred yards ahead, seemingly appearing from nowhere. He blinked again and saw that the woman dressed in white and stained with blood had moved again, John shaking his head in confusion.  

It must have been the drink. People did not move from one side of the street to the other at such a speed, seemingly vanishing and appearing once more within a blink.  

She appeared to be on high alert, John watching as she sniffed the air, a deep, foreboding rumble sounding through the night. He wondered whose dog was out at that hour, until it hit him; the growl was coming from her. It was a noise neither of human nor beast, an eerie, echoless reverberation, his heartbeat amping up a notch as he watched.  

Another blink and she was once again moved, a tearing sound filling the air, followed by a shrill cry, gurgling noises, spluttering. Looking to his right, he witnessed the woman dragging a man who had been concealed within the shadows out into the street, her mouth clamped upon his neck. John stood motionless, his eyes widening as he viewed the scene, a cold snap of horror shocking his bones as he witnessed her yank the man’s head clean from his neck with frighteningly swift finesse.  

His jaw began to tremor, his grip upon the gun in his hand tight as she walked to him, her fingers tangled in the black hair of the severed head she carried, a shock of crimson painting her chin and neck from where she had gorged upon the blood of the now lifeless, headless body slumped upon the cobbles.  

“Who the...” he began as she halted before him, changing track. “What the fuck are you?” 

Her lips curled into a smirk, holding the severed head aloft, blood and sinew dripping onto the ground below. “I am the one who saved you from Samuel Rasmussen. He waited for you.” Her head jerked back a fraction in the direction of the darkened lane. “Same as his three friends.”  

The silken purr of her voice was so alluring, it almost overrode the fact that John stood so terrified, he honestly did not know what on earth to say next. Had he truly seen what he saw? Was this merely a whiskey hazed dream? Surely, he was about to wake with a start, a thumping headache accompanying the morning that followed such peculiar dreams, for this couldn’t be real. 

Could it? 

Dropping the head to the floor, her hand reached for him, John’s shaking grip upon the gun solidifying as he thrust his arm forth, attempting to press the barrel to her skull. He found himself disarmed faster than he could comprehend, the Webley revolver landing with a clatter upon the ground.  

“Shhh,” she soothed, her enchanting eyes flitting over him, her long nails gently trailing his cheeks as she viewed him intently. “I mean you no harm.”  

Studying her up close properly, it was then that he noticed them, the two long, pointed teeth in place of where her canines should have sat, the smooth white smudged with red. His heart pounded like a war drum, his entire body feeling light. The lithe muscles of his form pinched tightly in fear, yet a juxtaposing sense of calm seemed to swirl through him at her softly delivered words. 

“You can trust me. I wish nothing more than to instil that within you.” What on earth was that accent? He couldn’t place it at all. 

How exactly, he could trust a woman who had just decapitated a man with her bare hands after drinking his blood, he didn’t know, but he felt on an instinctual level that he could. Unless it was the whiskey. Whiskey, of course, had the power to lie.  

The woman, though, seemed to be earnest in what she had told him, her nails stroking her cheeks as she studied him, her blue eyes flitting, taking him in. Oh, how she approved of what she gazed upon. He was magnificently handsome. Her nails stroked a hail of goose bumps over his alabaster skin, reaching his neck as she leaned forward, sniffing him. A contented sigh fluttered over her lips. 

“Your blood smells like earth and fire, honey and dark orchids.”  

What?  

He frowned, perplexed, opening his mouth to speak. No words came forth. He was so overcome by her that speech was beyond him. It felt like she was pouring soothing waves of calm into him, and little did he realise, but he was correct. Her kind could transmit energies to humans in order to placate their fears. 

Staring down at her, it struck him sharply, how much she didn’t quite look like she belonged there. Striking she was, with her milky skin that matched his own, her throat and chest covered in tattoos, symbols and swirls he didn’t recognise whatsoever. He knew tattooed ladies existed, but he was yet to witness one up until then, the dark-haired, blue-eyed woman smiling, her nails like sensual daggers upon his neck. 

She was unlike anyone else he’d ever encountered, a woman of distinct enigma.  

There was something about her that didn’t fit, decapitation and blood drinking aside. She looked as if she’d come from another time, a different age. This yanked at his interest almost as much as her allure, her pale skin seeming to glow beneath the light of the moon, now unincumbered by clouds as it shone its rays down upon them.  

“You are perhaps the most beautiful creature I have seen in a long, long time.”  

No, it was not he who uttered those words. It was the woman, her statement one of parting, John blinking and finding her vanished once more into the night. She’d left him breathless, with every hair on his body feeling like it was standing on end.  

Vampires tended to have that effect on the living. 

While the third youngest of the Shelby men made his way into their abode, the vampire moved at speed, perching herself atop the roof of one of the opposing back-to-back houses. The dark slate tingled against her bare feet, but being a creature of zero body heat unless she was sitting close to a source of warmth, it was of no bother to her.  

She sharpened her senses to the night, listening intently to every noise, every rustle. A bottle rolled over and tinkled over the cobbles a few streets away, a gentleman a few further on than that regurgitated the many beers he’d sunk in a nearby pub into the gutter, too, but other than that, all was quiet.  

Well, mostly all.  

Within the homestead she had been watching over, she heard the brand-new object of her desire being berated by the woman named Polly, as she’d gathered. Closing her eyes, she saw the one she knew to be named John there in her mind, a throb reverberating through her. Goodness, how handsome he was close up, perhaps the most divine man she’d encountered in a while.  

He carried himself with such pride and confidence, being a member of a notable criminal outfit, of course he would. A vampire of her age could tell so much more about a person, though, just by studying them, as she had with him and his family from the shadows. For all his acts of violence and authority, of which she had witnessed a couple, she sensed a man a little less ruthless than his elder brothers, with a heart a touch softer.  

It was the softness within him that pulled her in the most.  

She had gone there that night with the view of a single-minded agenda, only to encounter John Shelby up close for the first time and realise that her plight was perhaps not going to be quite as polarised as she’d first envisioned. Confident that the family were safe from any further acts of violent subterfuge, the vampire took one last look at the house.  

“Until next time, beautiful creature.”  

She was gone into the darkness within a blink.  

[myemuisemo]

"Modern Belgian masters" distracted me at the beginning of chapter V of The Hound of the Baskervilles in the most recent Letters from Watson. Doyle's offhand references to literature, pop culture, and politics usually have some substance behind them, and "modern Belgian masters" did not disappoint.

Belgium was a hotbed of artistic controversy! In 1876, a group of "rebellious" artists can formed what became L'Essor as a counterpoint to conservative art institutions. In 1883, L'Essor refused to exhibit James Ensor's De oestereetster on grounds that the painting was too risque (since oysters were considered an aphrodisiac, as well as resembling certain female parts). Rebels against L'Essor formed Les XX, which held its own exhibitions featuring more avant-garde artists, including Monet, Gauguin, Van Gogh, and Seurat.

Since Watson refers to Holmes having "the crudest ideas" about art, I'm guessing Holmes sided with Les XX on using experimental styles and unusual subjects to provoke (and to make political points). Whether the conversation included Ensor's etching Le pisseur, which shows Ensor urinating on a wall of graffiti that declares "Ensor es fou" (Ensor is crazy)... we can only hope.

This is just the beginning of a chapter that contains a lot of sly humor. For instance, when Holmes social-engineers information out of the desk clerk, the guests he asks about are a coal-merchant from Newcastle (so known for its coal that the phrase "like taking coals to Newscastle" meant taking a thing to a place where everyone already has plenty) and a very old lady named Mrs. Oldmore.

Sir Henry Baskerville establishes himself as rough-edged, choleric, and unaware of social nuance by yelling at the German waiter. Being rude to any staff would have been seen as ungentlemanly at the time (as now). There's more to it, though. Germans were the largest immigrant group in London in 1889, and their tradition of professional training made them highly in demand as waiters (source).

And then there's the man with the black beard, who has the wit and gall to tell the cab driver that he's Sherlock Holmes. It seems that there have not been sketches of Holmes in any press! Is he the same man with a black beard as butler Barrymore?

The telegram experiment seems to indicate not, but I'm not sure how probative it is.

The bearded man in the cab had his cab driver make haste to Waterloo Station, which served the London & Southwestern Railway. The L&SR took a northern route around Dartmoor, stopping at Exeter and Plymouth.

Watson and Sir Henry will be leaving from Paddington Station, which served the Great Western Railway. GWR takes the southern route along the Devon coast.

When I look at modern railroad schedules, a trip from London to somewhere around Dartmoor takes about 3.5 hours. Is that within the time frame of Sir Henry and Mortimer walking back to the Northumberland, the wait for Holmes and Dr. Watson to arrive for lunch, the luncheon itself, and finally the rigamarole of sending the telegram? It feels to me like it could be -- and also, when I was looking up old schedules for the short story with the missing train, it seems that sometimes Victorian lines ran faster than modern ones.

How common even were black beards? In latter half of the 19th century, beards were fashionable, though not universal. Dr. Alun Withey's discussion of 19th century beard styles shows an ad for false beards. The style at far right looks about right.

It's possible that someone is framing -- or just confusing the issue by imitating -- the butler Barrymore.

We are assured again that Rodger Baskerville died unmarried, which is starting to strike me as "protesteth too much."

Rodger is the one who went to make his fortune in South America. The largest silver deposits were in Bolivia and Peru, and Agatha Christie's Hastings goes to Argentina, so those are the countries where I started on looking for when civil registration of marriages and births started. The answers are 1940 in Bolivia, 1886 in Peru, and 1886 in Argentina. Peru did not start registering deaths until 1889. Before that time, proving a marriage or a birth meant going to the parish church records.

So the Baskerville family solicitor could not simply send a telegram to a government agency in the capital of Bolivia, nor hire a clerk at a Bolivian law office in the capital city to go check. Someone would have to identify the parish where Rodger would have married, produced an heir, or died -- which might be three different places. And then someone has to see about looking through a handwritten register.

How sure are we really that Rodger is even dead?

Since Holmes is so eager to send Watson along with Sir Henry, I assume he's counting on Watson's credulity to maximize the impact of planned shenanigans. Is this a story about a mysterious dog or a story about a grift?

[lacnunga]

Once-

As I rode swift along the way,

Newcastle from to York,

The blazing rays of fading day,

Enshadowed then a fork

Where stood a man who'd come a-foot,

And 'neath the painted signs there stood.

'Ho- are you lost?' To him I cried,

Intent to offer aid,

For often I this way did ride,

And of the roads not yet had strayed.

But never since I met a wight,

Who did my soul the less delight.

I could not see his features well,

For dark had over light fast clouded,

And all but eyes like coals from hell,

Had shadows there enshrouded,

And from this man-pit issued forth,

A voice of frost like winter North.

'Look now upon the face thy King,

And seek not to dispose,

Or hence ignore the birds who bring,

Songs understanding knows,'

These words this man said unto me,

As I now tell to thee.

In fetters he my heart has placed,

My soul in parts has rent,

So that this man thusly defaced,

And but on home intent,

Can ne'er be whole as once was born,

Who now to pieces found him torn.

So ride not late where roads are cross'd, 

At the darkened close of day,

Lest old King John thee there accost,

And thy good heart dismay,

For 'though my body home did come,

My soul did not and still is gone.

[scotianostra]

On October 26th 1640 The Treaty of Ripon was signed, restoring peace between Scottish Covenanters and Charles I of England.

This was a second brief war between Charles I of England and the Scots.

Charles I summoned Parliament (The Short Parliament), in order to raise an army against the Scots. The Scots invaded northern England, won a battle at Newburn on the Tyne and occupied Northumberland and Durham.

It all stemmed from the King attempting to impose a new prayer book on the Scots, remember Jenny Geddes chucking her stool in St Giles shouting “Deil colic the wame o’ ye! Out thou false thief! Dost thou say the mass at my lug?” (“The devil give a colic to your stomach! Out you false thief! Dare you say the mass at my ear?”). It wasn’t so much the prayer book itself, it was Charles trying to enforce Episcopacy or High Anglican system North of the border, this would have seen him taking control of church land and taxing it, the Presbyterians also so the English system as too close to Catholicism.

The First Bishops War ended in The Pacification of Berwick in June 1639, when Charles sent an army north, who didn’t really want to go in the first place, they got to Berwick, saw the size of the Scottish and army and decided they didn’t want to fight. An inconclusive treaty was hurriedly put together and everybody went home

A year later Charles, still brooding over his climb down, was determined to subdue the Covenanters by force and persuaded the English Parliament to finance an army of Irishmen, as well as trying to conscript men from the southern counties of England, they had no appetite for a fight though and the men he mustered were mainly untrained and poorly-disciplined, many of the southern levies deserted on the march to the north. Others were prone to mutiny: two officers found to be Catholics were lynched by their own men, who then dispersed. Violent disorders were reported from all parts of England that the levies passed through. By August 1640, the King's forces had mustered in Yorkshire and Northumberland, most of them poorly-armed, unpaid and underfed. The Irish army was not ready in time to take part in the campaign against Scotland.

In stark contrast the Scottish Covenanter army had remained in arms after the First Bishops' War and, with another war imminent, new levies were quickly raised. By early August 1640, the Covenanter army massed on the border with England was around 20,000 strong with an artillery train of sixty guns. Some of them were fresh from a six-week expedition pillaging and burning the lands of Royalist clans in the Highlands. Once the Scottish Royalists had been subdued, they besieged Dumbarton as a precaution against the possibility of Strafford's Irish army landing in western Scotland.

In August Leslie thwarted the English defensive preparations by simply bypassing the well-defended town of Berwick and marching straight for Newcastle and the rich coalfields that supplied London with coal. As the King hurried north to York, the Scots arrived at the outskirts of Newcastle on 27th August, a day later they soundly beat the ill-prepared English at the Battle of Newburn, Newcastle soon surrendered, most of Northern England was now in Scots hands.

The morale of the English army stationed in Yorkshire collapsed after the defeat at Newburn. On 24th September, King Charles summoned a Great Council of Peers at York — a revival of an institution that had not been used since the reign of Edward III. The Council almost unanimously advised the King to negotiate a truce with the Scots and to summon another Parliament in England. While the Council of Peers continued to sit in York, English and Scottish commissioners met at Ripon in October 1640 to negotiate a treaty.

The Treaty of Ripon was signed - A cessation of hostilities was agreed. Negotiations for a permanent settlement were to be negotiated. Meanwhile, the Scottish army was to occupy Northumberland and Durham, exacting an indemnity of £850 a day from the English government for its quarter; furthermore the Scottish government was to be reimbursed for its expenses in prosecuting the war against England.

In the end it forced Charles I to summon the Long Parliament, which in turn led to the English Civil War. The king had lost control of the situation, it eventually led to him losing his head, literally.

[gregdotorg]

In 1978 Chris Burden wanted to smuggle drugs in the funnest most conceptually advanced way possible, so he put two joins on a rubber band-powered plane and flew it across the chainlink fence at the US-Mexico border, and then called it a piece of performance art. And eventually he sold a relic of the performance, a vitrine with two spare planes and two spare joints, to a radiologist in Berkeley.

images: Chris Burden, Coals to Newcastle, 1978, in Calexico, CA; details of the relic vitrine via Christie's

[starryeyed-seer]

Neathly equivalent of carrying coal to Newcastle