#Dartington Outing

[johnbunkerart]

Bunker’s work is characterised by an obsession with those twin disruptors born of Modernism, abstraction and collage, and their continuing powerful presence in contemporary art.

Abstraction is often associated with high ideals, formal innovation and a preoccupation with purely aesthetic experience. Collage is, by contrast, the stuff of gritty satire, stark juxtapositions of imagery and the quotidian world of objects and images.

Bunker plays with the friction generated between these two modes, creating images and objects that are both allusive and elusive. Swinging from the delicate and poetic to the materially dense and brutal, the array of sculptures, paintings and wall-based assemblages on show- all of them made within the last decade– offer tangible proof of Bunker’s ability to conjure captivating and psychologically charged abstract images from a startling and diverse range of materials.

Whilst working on a house in Edinburgh in 1887, two itinerant labourers placed a message inside a whisky bottle and hid it under the floorboards. Bottle and contents have only now come to light; and John Bunker’s survey show at Tension Fine Art, ‘Our Dust is Blowing Along the Road’ derives its title from one of the message’s most memorable fragments. 

Bunker has this to say: “What struck me about this particular story was that the bottle was hidden in a house, rather than cast out to sea, and so long ago. I’d been thinking about putting together a survey show of my work for quite a while; and it occurred to me that, just like the bottle in this story, artworks get hidden away for years and then are rediscovered by the artist or curators. I liked the quiet poetry of those men’s words. They got me thinking: what messages from the past do artworks hold within the fabric of their peculiar singularity? How do they speak to us in the present tense and what might the future hold for them? Even an artwork I finished last week is already history!”

John Bunker was born in Norwich in the UK in 1968. He received BA Hons Degree in Art & Social Context from Dartington College of Arts, Devon in 1991. Since moving to London in 1996, Bunker has worked in various arts settings including community arts and Further and Higher Education. As well as maintaining his multi- disciplinary arts practise, Bunker also regularly curates exhibitions which have included artists as diverse as Sir Frank Bowling OBE RA and Harland Miller. He also writes regularly about art. Bunker has written numerous reviews, catalogue essays and articles and in 2018 co-founded instantloveland.com with Matt Dennis, a website dedicated to exploring the histories and potential futures of abstract art. Bunker has exhibited widely in the UK and abroad and has works in many private collections.

[mookev]

The history of the bridges in the parish is not easy to trace and the dates when they were first built are not known. Their existence only comes to light when they were officially recorded for some reason. Before the 14th Century, people and packhorses had to cross the Dart at Staverton at the ford – after which the village is named. The first bridge in the parish was Austin’s Bridge, just off the Buckfastleigh to Totnes Road. Originally 7’ 6’ wide it was widened in 1809. Dart Bridge (formerly known as Hood Bridge) was believed to have been built around 1356. Records indicate that Staverton Bridge was rebuilt in 1413 after the previous wooden structure was in danger of collapse.

The Church decided to finance the rebuilding of Staverton Bridge by issuing Indulgences, an apparently common means of raising finance for such projects in medieval times. People paid money to the church for Indulgences in the belief that they would spend less time in Purgatory, the equivalent of paying a fine instead of going to prison! The morality of raising funds in this way might be suspect, but at least we now benefit from the superstition of those who had done some wrong and hoped to buy their way out of Purgatory. As a result we now have the present fine stone bridge, which is a much-loved symbol of the Parish and which features on the Parish Council Chairman’s badge.

Some colourful events appear to have taken place on the bridge over the centauries. In 1436, an official enquiry resulted from a drunken brawl between a parish chaplain, Sir John Laa and one John Gayne. They were returning home from dining out and they started to argue on the bridge. The former drew a knife in self defence and the latter fell on it and was killed. Normally, a priest who had killed a man would have lost his living, but the Bishop’s enquiry absolved Sir John of any guilt and he continued in office.

Twenty years later, other incidents took place involving John Murry, the Bailiff of Haytor Hundred, who should have been maintaining the peace, but instead appears to have behaved suspiciously like a highwayman, relieving travellers of horses, harnesses and baggage as they crossed the bridge. It would have been an ideal place for waylaying and trapping victims.

Repairs and alterations have been carried out during the bridge’s long history but it remains the main route out of the village to Dartington and Totnes. Stand quietly on the bridge for a moment or two and you might just be lucky enough to catch the vivid blue flash of the kingfisher as it hunts for fish.

[juliansummerhayes]

A few words

I have not written anything on Tumblr for a while.

Why is that?

My mood, my inclination or because I've nothing to say. Probably all or some of them; but I'm not done -- at least with my poetic and mythic sensibilities.

Right now, as I talked about in today's blog post, I'm almost at the end of my 5th job in five years. In bygone years, that would have meant anyone thinking of employing me, should stay well clear. There's trouble out in yonder movings and shakings.

But (of course) everything's explainable away; I can story-make with the best of them but let's just say there's only so much consternation one man can live under and with before you have to sever the Gordian Knot.

Where next for me?

Well, I'd love to do a Bukowski and go big or go home but I'm not his heir apparent -- not even close -- and I'll I can do is wend my way to another ending, along the tightrope of conformity that I've lived for far too long. If I don't do that then I'll have to go solo and see where the winds of time-tested theory take me.

Anyhow, it's good to have this platform available to me. It's out the way and means that my language doesn't have to border on the serene. That's code for saying I can be myself.

Take care.

Blessings, Julian

PS. This was today's walk around the Dartington Estate with the River Dart flowing mellifluously beside me.

[almostnormalcomics]

A Short Tragedy is an 22-page, mini-sized, Black and White, illustrated literary zine published by The Bubblegum Dada Corporation.

I’ve learned a great many things from reading the many mini publications of the The Bubblegum Dada Corporation. What I’ve learned from this most recent offering, A Short Tragedy, is you can get 15 years in the pokey if you unintentionally kill a little person at a wedding with bodily fluids! What might you learn from The Bubblegum Dada Corporation? Write to ‘em and find out at:

The Bubblegum Dada Corporation

c/o 15 Dartington Walk

Leigham

Plymouth

Devon

PL6 8QA

UK

[jonesyjonesyjonesy]

I call JPJ's 1980 haircut "dad hair" because its what a lot of white dad's rocked 80-00's. Since you're Queen Jonesy, can you tell me how long he had that cut?

I know I can easily research this myself but I just love when you talk about him.

it is SUCH a sensible dad haircut like?? after all this time, he finally gave into having three daughters. but it honestly makes it perverse and iconic for him since the shortest he had had it was 1975 and that was still a scruffy moment with those sideburns (sidenote, I don't think we talk about his sideburns enough).

as far as how long he had it, i can only guess at. I think he probably held onto having short hair for the most part until the later 80s. The next photographic evidence of him is December, 1981.

lookin tiny as ever. Dave Lewis wrote in Tight But Loose "Jonesy looked like he’d just come from doing the school run (which he probably had!) in new Kicker shoes and smart tie," (x). Fucking cute.

This preceded his time teaching electronic composition at Dartington College of the Arts in 1982, for which I can't imagine he didn't have a sensible haircut.

And then we get to 1984, the 'Scream For Help' era which is EXTREMELY FLUFFY, but still short.

Live Aid, 1985, still saw the general fluffiness of our boy.

And then the next photographs we have, he's growing out his hair in 1987 I believe.

Which gets us to the Atlantic reunion in 1988…

Which gave birth to his last long hair-a up through 1995.

with a brief break in 1992.

Okay I know more than I thought 😂

Also, so honored you like to hear me talk about the little man. He is, for better or worse, a huge part of my life and I'm always happy to share my archival knowledge.

[milkwithginseng]

Young Bond: Shoot to Kill by Steve Cole Review

For a challenge this year I decided to read a new Ian Fleming James Bond book, and a non-Fleming Bond book every month. Last month’s non-Fleming offering was Shoot to Kill which I thought I’d write a review of:

Despite growing up with the Young Bond series penned by Charlie Higson I had aged out of it by the time this book came around in 2014. I can’t recall when I found out that there was a second Young Bond series so this time I’m going without any knowledge and crucially without any sentimental attachment to them.

Anecdotally I’ve never seen any of the Cole books in the wild which doesn’t augur well, except at the mecca of books, the Foyles Bookshop at Charing Cross Road, which is where I picked up my paperback copy of Shoot to Kill. 

I was both fascinated and trepidatious about Cole’s Young Bond series because on the one hand, I was really interested to see how he continued what Higson started and how he wrote James during his time at Fettes. I enjoyed his first Doctor Who novel, The Feast of the Drowned, but apart from that I’ve not been too enthused with his work, I get the impression he’s a very workmanlike author which is not necessarily a bad thing but he not only has to live up to Fleming but also Higson in my book. 

On the whole, I think Cole does achieve the impossible, Shoot to Kill is a competently written continuation of Higson’s series with marvellous action in an inspired setting, Hollywood in the Golden Age of Film is such a great fit for James Bond. Doubly so for this prequel series which carries on the rumination on James’ future. In a meta sense, the silver screen is where James Bond eventually ends up.

Cole to his further credit confounded my expectations from the very first page, I had assumed that we’d get straight to Fettes but James has to spend a few weeks at Dartington Hall, an experimental new school in Totnes before he makes his way north of the border. 

It’s an effective rug pull for the seasoned Bond readers and allows Cole to play in the gaps in James Bond’s timeline while also carving out something new and revealing something about the transitory nature of James’ life. 

But knowing from the start that we’ll likely never see these characters again does hamper the ability to fully embrace them. They do grow on you, there is an endearing quality about them and I like that there is more of an ensemble feel to this adventure. Hugo Grande is easily the most likeable of the newly-introduced characters, and a better representation of a person with dwarfism than No Time to Die. However, I don’t think they are quite as distinctive as they could be.

It would’ve been hard for anyone to top the previous Bond girl Roan Power but Bouddica “Boody” Pryce does feel like a downgrade. Some attempt is made to flesh her out, with her engineering streak that gives Bond an iconic weapon but she fills the typically prickly girl that Bond has to deal with that fails to mark her out as something more. 

Where Shoot to Kill falls down in the plotting. James along with his classmates happening to fall upon a snuff film is intriguing but unlike SilverFin where there is a gradual ramping up of stakes as the story goes on Shoot to Kill has a decently solid, if a little slow opening but then it completely sags in the middle only for it to do a full 180 and go full throttle in the final third. It’s only in that final third where the villain of the piece I felt truly became worthy of Fleming.

What Cole lacks is what Raymond Benson coined as ‘the Fleming sweep’ the little hooks at the end of a chapter that urge you to read the next and on and on. Something that Higson was similarly able to master. 

It also relies a little too much on coincidence, there’s an awful lot of James happening to overhear things at just the right time. However, the one occasion where it does work is the one time he gets caught eavesdropping by a newspaper reporter of Asian heritage which is a nice subversion of Dr No.

To first get to America James has to board a Zeppelin. I love how the book takes advantage of a phenomenon that wouldn’t be possible if the story was set even only a couple of years later in the decade. 

The Young Bond series has never been glamorous in the way that Fleming’s novels often are so it’s welcome that this series finally indulges in the splendour of the USA. And this is in a sense the first time James canonically has his first taste of luxury and the book captures the childlike naivety of the wonder of America that I certainly had at that age, that it was like Britain but bigger and more ostentatious.

And the glamour is effectively juxtaposed with the sleaze, something that I think Shoot to Kill does better than Diamonds Are Forever, which the former is clearly inspired by, the penultimate showdown having definite ‘Spectreville’ vibes.

It’s a similar story with the goriness which if anything is something more prominent in Higson’s stories than Fleming’s. Rather than shying away from it the goriness is still here with the villain getting a fittingly gruesome death but on more than one occasion the gore is simply described prosaically as “gory”, Cole’s writing again lacks the sharpness that Fleming and Higson employed. 

It took me a little while to acclimatise to how Cole writes James as opposed to Higson, it’s only when James gets a charmingly cheeky, toying with his friend did I realise that Cole is writing him with Roger Moore in mind. Which makes a lot of sense, Higson very much a child of Connery and Cole being a couple of decades younger must’ve grown up with Moore. 

There are some more cute references, James walking past a concert hall playing a ‘distinctive and jazzy’ number ‘with a mid-tempo beat, brasses and strings and needling steel guitars’ and an ominous swagger’ nod to the iconic Bond theme while still being quite subtle. Then there’s the obligatory Hoagy Carmichael reference that actually factors into the plot later on which I think works less well. Then come the final page we get something of a sequel hook concerning Andrew Bond and if this is going where this is going then I’m not looking forward, to put it mildly. 

Overall, Shoot to Kill is a mostly competent debut for Cole’s series, filled with decent action but one that lacks the finesse of its predecessors that ultimately left me feeling a little lukewarm. 

[fuckyeahmarkgatiss]

https://www.dartington.org/event/the-spectre-at-the-feast-a-talk-with-mark-gatiss/

Join on line for free (or give a small donation), to hear Mark Gatiss share his own spooky tales and some of his favorites, while exploring the connection between festivity and terror.

👻🎃👹👻🎃👹👻🎃👹👻

[mrscrowley8]

Mark Gatiss - Press review of the day (02/10/2020)

‘Lockdown’: Ben Stiller, Lily James, Stephen Merchant, Dulé Hill, Jazmyn Simon & Mark Gatiss Set To Join Doug Liman’s Harrods Heist Movie Underway In London 

Producers are in advanced talks with Ben Stiller, Lily James, Stephen Merchant, Dulé Hill, Jazmyn Simon and Mark Gatiss to join the cast.

Source: Deadline

Full article: Click here

______________________________________________________________

Summer Reads to Carry You into the Fall

“The Vesuvius Club”

Now, this book is purely in here for fun. I picked it up over the summer on Thriftbooks, along with other books for a book club I do with my friends, because I just wanted something fun to read.

I also saw it was by Mark Gatiss, the brilliant writer of “Sherlock” on the BBC, which made me like it even more. It turned out to be so much better than I ever could have expected! The book follows the character of Lucifer Box, an English spy in the early 1900s, described on the back cover as “equal parts James Bond and Sherlock Holmes, with a dash of Austin Powers.”

The book showcases the funny and fast-paced writing that made “Sherlock” so loved by viewers, but in a fun setting. This book was a little ridiculous, but it made me actually laugh out loud, while still having a good plot. Definitely a fun read for anyone looking to relax!

Source: The Fairfield Mirror

Full article: Click here

______________________________________________________________

The Spectre at the Feast: A Talk with Mark Gatiss 

What makes a good ghost story? Find out on this thrilling evening with the man who describes himself on social media as ‘actor, writer, strangler’, Mark Gatiss.

The bond between Christmas and the spooky – perhaps most embodied by the Charles Dickens classic, A Christmas Carol – is the staple of many much-loved stories. In this talk, Mark will share his own and his favourite tales as he reads from ghost stories looking at the contrast between jollity and terror; the invitation of a spectre to the feast; the tracing of the anxiety within the festivity.

Mark has been writing ghoulish tales since his childhood, and is best known for his acting and writing credits on The Vesuvius Club, the BBC’s Sherlock and Dracula adaptations, and The League of Gentlemen.

Source: Dartington

Full article: Click Here

[gillianwormley]

Virtual Workshop Weekend for singers: Sing Joyfully 2021

Last year, in the wake of COVID-19 and the uncertainty that it created for singers getting together, I decided to make 2020 my year of delivering my regular workshop courses online. They were a resounding success.

I had the wonderful experience of attending another of Gillian Wormley's events this last weekend 10th to 12th October Sing Joyfully focussing on ensemble singing. This would normally be at lovely Dartington Hall in Devon, but COVID19 rather put a stop to that especially with 2 of our number living in Spain. However, Gillian brilliantly turned this into a virtual weekend but cleverly named the virtual meeting rooms names which were familiar from Dartington rooms and places especially meeting in the White Hart afterward although the real wine in my hand was rather nicer than the virtual one 😃

Steve Hope

Residential weekends at Dartington Hall, have in recent years formed part of my teaching year structure. Situated near Totnes in South Devon, the Dartington Hall ethos provided the perfect vibe for such valuable learning exchanges to happen. The workshop weekends typically ran in March (Love Your Voice) for solo singers, and October (Sing Joyfully) for ensemble singers.

Since March 2020, thanks to the pandemic, I’ve been on a learning curve of my own, reconfiguring my music studio, learning more about the tech requirements for teaching, and leading online. Little did I know how eerily on-point my post of January that year, where I welcomed applications for my ‘Love Your Voice’ course at Dartington Hall. This is how I opened the post:

“Teaching is more than imparting knowledge, it is inspiring change. Learning is more than absorbing facts, it is acquiring understanding.”

William Arthur Ward

and ...

Where the mentor provides a thought-provoking, boundary-busting structure to learning practices, so the student is encouraged to open themselves up to new ideas and patterns of work.

There is co-operative freedom to inspire. Magical when you experience it.

I like the idea of boundary-busting and inspiring change. 

There is always a buzz of excitement in the months leading up to each of these events. It is very rewarding to watch returning singers, who in the normal turn of events, have allowed Dartington’s beautiful surroundings to feed their soul with each repeated experience, to hear their voices GROW in confidence and enjoyment in what they can do.

This year, right now, I anticipate that Sing Joyfully 2021 may offer singers two modes of participation; in person AND (for those who cannot travel easily) online. I rise to the challenge of taking on both initiatives to offer the whole music-making/ensemble-collaboration experience, in equal part.

My workshop weekends are immersive, by design. The best experiences are those borne out of an eagerness to learn. Good preparation is key - only then can each singer give wholeheartedly to the group as a whole.

The Dartington ethos, learning by doing, fits the bill completely. The magic will still weave its spell.

Come and join us; click the link and discover more. If you know you’d like to sing with us, here’s an application form link: Sing Joyfully 2021

You’ll find more info/details about planned SJ 2021 activities emerging on the event page in coming weeks and in early September I will share final timetable & ensemble details with participants sharing what to expect from the weekend as a whole.

Workshop weekend fees: £200 with a £75 deposit to pay on application, with deadline for action being Friday 20 August 2021, latest.

Thanks to my lovely friend and musician Paul Hornsby (fellow ex-dart too) for the first post image above. More examples of his excellent work can be found at www.hornsbyphotography.com or www.joatamon.photos.

[yespolkadotkitty]

National Treasure

A ridiculous one shot I wrote after being dragged down the rabbit hole by my pals @hopelessromanticspoonie and @just-the-hiddles. 

*****

“Okay, let’s take a break from this segment. Y/N, can you do a tea run?”

“Sure.” You took the moment to stretch, assessing that with all the crew members you’d need an extra pair of hands. “I’ll just do a recce.”

It was the final day of filming for a new series of adverts for the National Trust. They wanted to pitch their viewing at a newer, cooler audience, and they’d enlisted a whole load of famous British faces to speak on behalf of the places the NT looked after - “forever, for everyone.”

You were a fan. Especially of this place. You were currently filming at Stourhead, the home of the first ever Palldian villa to be built in the UK. The villa sat, the gem in an estate that included a tranquil lake complete with secluded grotto and statues, and a wishing fountain. When you arrived, some of the other runners had taken turns with you to toss coins into the fountain, making wishes.

You fished your notepad from the back pocket of your jeans and drew the pen from where you’d tucked it into your ponytail. Sexy it might not be, but having a pen there was beyond handy.

“Don’t forget Tom. He’s in the Grotto,” your colleague called as you started off.

The team were spread out. It was going to be a long recce and an even longer trip to get tea, you thought, but you didn’t mind. The day was sunny but a cool breeze ensured tempers hadn’t frayed, which could happen on a long day of filming.

So far the NT had filmed Benedict Cumberbatch at Trelissick Gardens, Luke Evans at Dyrham Park, Emma Thompson at Treasurer’s House, and Dame Judi Dench at Dartington Hall.

The NT had planned for Tom to film his segment in London, at Osterley Park, but filming clashes with the BBC had meant that Stourhead was closer for him.

He’d been friendly and warm when you’d met, and a little tingle of awareness had zinged up your arm when he’d shaken your hand, those summer sky blue eyes meeting yours and holding for a hot second.

You had shaken it off though, ever the consummate professional. Of course you felt a zing. You’d have to be dead not to.

The cool September breeze ruffled the ends of your ponytail as you picked your way down the steps to the Grotto. A gorgeous surprise to visitors who walked around the lake, the Grotto held two marble statues and the bubble of fresh, running stream water. In one of the pools, koi carp swam, delighting all who saw them, especially young children.

The Grotto was habitually slippery due to the springwater that sometimes bubbled over, and you were always careful. You wore work boots on site to protect yourself from any slips. Even so, your toe caught on one stony outcrop and for a second, you were flailing in mid air.

“Got you.”

You looked up into Tom’s stormy blue eyes. His arms encircled you, the springy curls on his head messy at the top, like he’d been running his hands through them. The corner of his mouth tipped up. You settled your hands on his shoulders, the material of the tweed jacket he wore soft under your palms. He’d really gone for the “country pile” look - tweed, a button down white shirt, jeans and Barbour boots.

“Thanks,” you breathed. “Bit slippery, here.”

He set you down safely. “Pleasure’s mine.”

You looked around, never tiring of the beauty of your home county, and proud that the National Trust worked to conserve green places like this. Secret places, where imagination and nature dreamed hand in hand.

“I love it here,” you said, without thinking, turning a circle to admire the statues and the stony walls, the shadows cast by trees and plants overhead.

“Hard to believe the world is out there, isn’t it? One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.”

“Shakespeare?”

He rubbed his cheek, looking embarrassed. “How did you know?”

“I, ah, came to see if you wanted some refreshment. Before we start again.”

His gaze held yours and you saw it. A flicker of naughty in his eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

Your mouth went dry as he moved closer to you, boxing you in against the slick wall of the Grotto. The stone was cool against your back, through your thin black shirt. He smelled fresh, citrussy with just a hint of bergamot and the tang of coffee.

“I’ve thought about this all day,” he murmured, his mouth lowering to yours.

Your heart lurched. “Seriously?”

Your voice came out a squeak, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“The way you bite your lip when you’re thinking. The way your hair sways with your hips when you walk.”

He hadn’t even touched you yet and you were melting inside.

Swallowing your gasp, his lips moved over yours. He was as fantastic a kisser as you’d imagined when you’d watched him kiss Kate in The Hollow Crown, later retiring to bed to indulge in a fantasy only your vibrator had been able to help you complete.

Your pulse raced as his tongue danced with yours, and of their own volition your arms slipped around his neck. You let your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, and in response he yanked you closer. All coherent thought left your mind as you felt the length of him hard against your lower belly. Yes.

You groan his name as he nips at your lips. As you wriggle against him, trying to get closer still, Tom slides his hands under you and boosts you up against the uneven, stony wall. Its edges go unnoticed by you as you wrap your legs around his waist. His stubble scrapes your skin and it electrifies his kiss, every nerve ending coming alive in a burst of heat and fire.

“Y/N! Where are you?”

You both jump at the shout from your colleague. Tom meets your gaze and looks guilty, but happy.

“I’ve delayed you.”

“And look how hard I’m fighting to get free,” you tease.

He brushes another kiss over your mouth, tender from his attention. “I’m staying at the B&B down the road. Come see me, later?”

You nod and hop down from his arms to attend to the tea run.

Later, during filming, he sends you a wink as the make up artist finishes fussing with him. Your cheeks heat and you know that after you wrap, you’ll be doing a lot more than drinking tea together.

OK, it’s not a tweed jacket, but I’m limited to what’s on the internet.

Disclaimer: There are no koi carp at Stourhead. I just think they’re awesome.

[almostnormalcomics]

My Man Jean is a 30-page, single sided, black and white, mini size, picture storybook zine. Published by The Bubblegum Dada Corporation.

A little dark humor in this mini picture-book of love, jealously, and murder! Through a series of black and white vintage illustrations that look as if they were taken from Victorian books, a story unfolds as told by a young woman infatuated with her step-brother. The woman’s passion for her step-brother is not returned, instead his head is turned by another. Out of desperation the woman tells her tale of pursuit, crime, escape, and the assumption of a new identity…all because of love!

Tune in to a torrid tale of tempestuous fixation in the pages of My Man Jean at:

The Bubblegum Dada Corporation c/o 15 Dartington Walk Leigham Plymouth Devon PL6 8QA UK

[newsandmediarepublic]

‘Many sided’ Dartington Outing: first major queer arts festival at Dartington Hall

‘Many sided’ Dartington Outing: first major queer arts festival at Dartington Hall

We’re a little behind the curve on this one – that’s what happens after a month-long beach party here at PRSD towers (there’s still some sand behind our spacebars) – so this is a delayed heads up about ‘a Dartington Outing – seven days of queer arts and bent events’, talking place from 21-29 September 2017, to mark 50 years since the partial decriminalisation of homosexuality in the UK1. Read on…

[alexdecampi]

The Scottish Boy excerpt: The Black Knight

Hello all! Now that I've posted the lovely art of the Black Knight from @Trungles in the last Scottish Boy update, I thought I'd give you an excerpt (spoiler-free) from a later chapter where the Black Knight features. (I’ve also re-posted Trungles’ art under the cut!) 

I think one of the benefits of coming back to prose writing after a lengthy sojourn in comics is it's made me quite good at blocking out action scenes and keeping them dramatic and suspenseful. Anyway, judge for yourself. Please consider pledging for the novel this is an excerpt from, you can read more right here. It’s only $35 for a 450+ page illustrated hardback, and $15 for eBook. And in a very real way, I can’t do this without you. 

“I need to speak to His Majesty,” mutters Montagu, pacing. He points at the head. “Take this thing away and bury it. You, come with me,” he commands, his index finger rising to indicate the young knight who had spoken first. “You’ll give a full report in front of the King. Number of troops. Weapons. Likely nationalities. Tactics. If the King approves, we’ll raise a larger force and destroy this resistance and all who support them the same way we took care of it in Scotland.”

“I’d like to go,” says Harry, stepping forwards before he even realises it. “I’ve been on several raids across the border. I know some of the land.” Harry inhales, and plays his final card. “Sir Thomas Howland, too, he is the most experienced raider of us all.”

Montagu smiles at him, his hooded eyes as dead as a December garden. “Good old Sir Harry. We can always count on you.”

The King prevaricates. Sending enough men to end the border resistance once and for all would mean sending an Earl, and if they send an Earl, they might as well just invade France. The King doesn't want to invade until Germany and the Low Countries get off the fence. Plus, their army at Antwerp is not large. A hundred and twenty knights, plus about a thousand men-at-arms.

Then France sends its fleet against English port towns. Portsmouth is hit; Southampton, burned. The Channel Islands are seized. The news reaches Antwerp at the same time as a letter from Oliver Ingham, the English seneschal in Gascony, begging for help against a French invasion.

Edward sends messengers to England to begin raising real army. And he sends an Earl over the border.

Montagu takes a quarter of their men-at-arms and twenty knights, including Harry and Sir Thomas. They follow the Scheldt river southwest to Ghent and then towards Tournai, just across the line into France. Once they reach Tournai, they will turn north and travel along that border, killing and burning their way towards Calais. It’s a cumbersome force, ill-suited to fast raiding in enemy territory. Instead, Montagu plans to intimidate the locals into giving up the mercenaries: each village will be asked for information, and if they don’t respond, the village and everyone in it will be destroyed.

The monotonous, flat fields of Flanders are finally relieved by low hills as they approach the border. Sparse stands of trees thicken into forest and Harry is relieved for the shade, even if he misses the stark, endless visibility of the farmlands. The docile barns and quiet farmsteads of the plains are not all friendly to the English cause. Any one could harbor enemy combatants ready to slip out under the cover of night and devastate an English camp. The landscape reminds Harry heartbreakingly of Dartington, and he spends a day in turmoil, imagining men like them riding through Devon, burning and killing.

They cross the Scheldt at a little stone bridge late on their third afternoon, and then the small army makes camp at the edge of the elm forest just on the Flemish side of the border. Tomorrow, they ride into France. Tonight, their last night on Flemish soil, they eat cold rations of cheese and hard bread and sausage, and turn in without fires. Harry sleeps in his mail. He learned that lesson in Scotland.

Their first mistake is assuming they were safe in Flanders.

Their second is assuming the mercenaries would fight like Englishmen.

The raiders slay the sentries with knife and bolt in the deepest pits of the night, when the moon has already begun her decline. Harry jolts awake to the sounds of screaming and the creak and twang of crossbows. He slams on his helmet, grabs his shield and sword, and unlaces his tent flap. His first instinct is to head for Montagu, because he has a feeling that is where the Black Knight, this Chevalier de la Mort, will be. But as he looks cautiously outside his tent, his military instincts take over. First, he has to secure the horses.

The camp is pandemonium. Montagu brought with him a score of longbowmen but their ranged weapons are useless in a packed, close-range night fight in a forest. Harry keeps his shield up and his head down and yells “<To the horses! To the horses!>” as he runs through the camp towards the horse lines. He deliberately chooses to speak in English, hoping none of the raiders understand their language.

He ducks under a crossbow bolt and whirls, his sword coming up low and under the bowman’s short hauberk. Harry feels the wet suck of the sword hitting the man’s thigh bone and yanks hard, pulling it out. He runs on. There’s no point making sure the man is dead. If he can’t stand, he’s as good as gone, and with luck one of his friends will stop to help him. Then Harry will have stopped two raiders rather than just one.

A few men-at-arms from their camp stagger towards him, clutching weapons and shields, most still in their nightshirts. By the time they get to the horse lines there are a couple dozen of them, knights and spearmen and a few longbowmen, massed together. It’s enough to make them a hard target in a camp full of easy ones, and but for a few opportunistic shots from passing raiders with crossbows they’re left alone.

Harry doesn’t hear the sound of hooves anywhere but from their own horses, fearful and restless in their lines. Inside, he’s panicking, because he knows the raiders' mounted force is out there somewhere. But where? It makes his skin crawl, knowing that the main part of the attack hasn’t even happened yet, that any moment now will come the thunder of heavy armor riding them all down. The forest will slow them, but it’s an old forest, with tall trees and little undergrowth. Nothing to stop a mounted knight.

Harry throws a bridle on on Nomad then jumps up on him, bareback, and once again yells “<To me! Rally to the horse lines!>” He orders the younger knights, all with fresh memories of squiring, to grab all the remaining destriers and take the men-at-arms and head as a body back over the Scheidt bridge, deeper into Flanders. All Harry can do is send a quick prayer heavenward that he’s not sending them to their death. It’s strange that the raiders hadn’t already freed the horses, or stolen them… unless they want the English to run.

Unless the bridge is a trap.

“<Ride back along the river!>” Harry calls, his guts twisting in panic as he remembers the little copse of trees on the Antwerp side of the bridge. At what perfect cover it would be to turn the crossing into a killing ground. “<Don’t take the first bridge you come to. Take the second.”>

The men nod their understanding.

Harry calls to some of the men-at-arms he’s worked with before: Carl and Pete and Kev and old Lars. He has just enough time to point out the horses of the Earl and his household knights before the raiders – who hadn’t been avoiding them, they’d been organizing – are on them. It’s a dozen enemy against the six of them, but Harry is on horseback and Kev has his bow. Kev can shoot six arrows for every one from the more cumbersome Genoese crossbows, and they soon even the odds. Carl's hit, they can’t tell how badly, but Pete and Lars get him over a horse and they’ll worry about it later, when they have the luxury of time.

They push through the camp towards Montagu’s tent. Harry can see the knights of quality bunched in front of it, surrounded by enemy raiders.

Montagu is furious, screaming at the raiders from behind the cordon of knights defending him. “French scum! Brigands! Your leader calls himself a knight, then why won’t he come out and fight like one?”

There’s a soft, harsh sound then, somehow audible over the clash of steel and the thud of arrows into shields. It’s a crackling, gasping wheeze, and Harry realizes after a moment that it’s laughter.

A chill runs down his spine as he looks to its source. There, deep in the shadows of the trees, is a pool of even greater darkness: a knight, huge and broad in black plate, his shield plain but for a bend sinister, on a large black warhorse. And he’s laughing at them.

Harry can hear the muted chink of the horse’s tack as the knight shakes his head in amusement and turns his steed, disappearing into the forest. And that’s somehow the most terrifying thing of all: that the Black Knight didn’t feel like he had to engage. That they weren't worth his time.

[lesser-known-composers]

     This track, (mainly for any aliens out there who ?... maybe secretly visiting earth), is from my self released Bandcamp album Corner People. It will be the first track on my new album, which is called Rope Theory. This recording will be available as a digi DL in loads of different outlets next Thursday the 16th of May, and is a compilation of a bunch of my tunes.

     If anyone is interested, I got the name Liudprand, and there are various spellings, from my liking of Late Roman/Byzantine history. He was a diplomat and Bishop of Cremona (c. 920-972). I liked the way he wrote.

     Listen/purchase: Corner People by liudprand

[lovelyannoyingcat]

Buy Dartington flower vases online made by Hilary Green it features an indented base that can be used to help retain or splay out stems when using with flowers.

[brosencrantz]

lair of the green man

Dartington Hall is a lovely medieval estate, currently very much at the top of a historical sine wave of investment and decline. Built in Plantagenet days, it endured centuries of this before some rich oddballs bought it in the early 20th century to adapt into a sort of Bloomsbury Group combo of agricultural and domestic education college, artists’ retreat and back-to-basics proto-hippie-commune with elements of monastic self-sufficiency (it’s just down the road from an actual monastery, Buckfast Abbey, which mostly seems to make enormous amounts of money as a conference venue and selling bottles of what-the-hell-are-you-looking-at to neds.)* On a bright summery day it was quiet and felt extremely Proper. The main courtyard of grey, licheny three-storey buildings sets off the massive front of the hall itself, which inside has a really very good hammerbeam roof and some weird modern banners.

Through into the gardens, a great sculpted bowl of earth claimed semi-convincingly to have once been a tiltyard; a huge staircase was spaced in flights like a miniature Odesa Steps,** a carved stone otter had been munching on the same stone fish for who knows how many years. In the fun sprawl of the gardens, odd little doors led into the hillside (probably housing lawnmowers rather than hobbits) and plants bloomed out in an absurd diversity of shapes and colours. Set in a graveyard of overgrown stones with half-decipherable names, we found the Spookiest of All Trees: a yew so knotted it resembled a rope fender sized for the Ever Given. Only the brilliant sun stopped it all from feeling Proper Haunted. (Will we be seeing it in the new Utterly Dark?)

for all the rest including Totnes, Exeter, and lascivious scallops, View On WordPress