#My great-grandparents on that side were from Ireland originally

[keldae]

So one of my latest ADHD hyperfixations has been genealogy. I'm waiting on the results of my DNA sample (should have the results March 31st or so!), and while I'm waiting, I've been poking around with my family tree. Mum has been a genealogy nut for YEARS, like she's traced her side of the family back to Ireland and Ukraine, but I know almost nothing about Dad's side. So I reached out to my great-aunt and uncle, on Mum's suggestion.

We met for dinner last night, and my uncle brought a few documents with him to trace the origins of my surname. I now officially know that it was my 3x great-grandparents who came over from Scotland, and settled in New York State for a few years before that great-great-great-grandmother moved up to Ontario as a widower, and stayed there. And my uncle could confirm that my great-grandfather on this side served in WWI, and lied about his age to enlist (he was 15 when he signed up, and the truth didn't come out until he was wounded in the trenches). Apparently my great-grandmother on that side was Welsh, but I'll have to wait for confirmation details on that (a few German names in the family tree too)! (When my DNA results come in, they'll likely just confirm that my genes all come from Western Europe, strong emphasis on the British Isles. My more-distant ancestors probably fought the English regularly!)

It's fascinating, being able to trace back my roots like this and follow the footsteps of some of my ancestors! They're not just names on a page belonging to people who died in the 1800s -- they're my distant family. It's a little eerie. I know their names, and when they were born, and when they died, but I don't know what they looked like, or what they loved to do as a hobby, or what they were afraid of. Did my great-great grandmother have my chin? Do my eyes come from another ancestor? Given that Mum's parents couldn't sing if their lives depended on it, I'm assuming my ability to sing not-terribly came from Dad's side. Did my love of writing and storytelling come from Mum or Dad's side? How about my tea addiction? Or my artistic abilities?

I'll likely never known the answers to some of those questions. But it makes for fascinating thinking about. And I hope my ancestors are proud of me.

[jessicas-southkoreanlitblog]

Reflections on a Year of Reading Korean Literature

Titles Read

Brother One Cell- Cullen Thomas

XOXO- Axie OH

The Silence of Bones- June Hur

No One Writes Back- Jang Eun-Jin

Originally I wanted to go to countries like Italy or Ireland. Those two countries were my first two picks for this project because that’s where my family is from. On my dads side of the family most of my ancestors come from Ireland. On my moms side of the family we have a rich heritage in Italy. With my great grandparents coming to the United States from Italy, which was a cool story to hear from my grandpa. I really wanted to know more about these countries and their culture. Figuring these two countries would end up being popular picks I went for my third choice of South Korea. I didn't know much about South Korea but I really wanted to know more about it. There are a lot of recurring themes for their Young Adult romance novels, which have the theme of K-pop being heavily involved. After reading 20 weeks of Korean Literature I feel like I have learned a lot about its culture and its rich history and culture. Learning about a new country basically from scratch is really nice. You have no predetermined thoughts or ideas on the country and instead get to experience the literature straight from the source.

From Brother One Cell, by Cullen Thomas, I learned the difference in prison systems and the inside story from someone who was in multiple South Korean prisons. Thomas’ book is an autobiography of Thomas’ life in South Korea. Why he came to South Korea and what ended him up in prison. From this book I got to understand and learn about what someone's life in a South Korean prison would look like. I learned how having a support system like a family can be really beneficial. To have people always have your back and help you through really tough times.

XOXO by Axie Oh explores the idea of love and how it can persevere through unexpected circumstances and secrets. It also explores the dynamic between a mother and daughter who don't see eye to eye on certain things, but can learn to talk it out and ultimately find a way back to each other.

From The Silence of Bones by June Hur, I learned that you can always strive for more no matter your circumstances. Our main character Seol has really been dealt bad hand after bad hand in life but she never lets that stop her from doing what she wants out of her life. She finds her brother, solves a murder case, and learns how to read and write even though her status as Damo held her back.

From No One Writes Back by Jang Eun-jin, I learned that finding yourself can take awhile and can help with some unexpected people. Our main character Jihun had become a traveler with his dog Wajo. Jihun likes to write letters to people he meets throughout his days, only getting their stories and not their names. One day he meets a woman. This woman unknowingly and seamlessly helped Jihun find himself in a way no had had expected. Teaching him he can rely on people even though he hadn’t gotten a letter back and he hadn’t seen his family.

Through the 20 weeks of Independent Reading, I have learned that I actually enjoyed all of the books that I had read. Though at first I was kind of reluctant because they weren’t the kind of books I would normally read, I did enjoy every last one of them. It was hard though to try to keep up with the 10 pages a day, especially with school, work, homework, and my home life, I think I was able to manage. I enjoy being told when to read and how much I should read, especially since I'm busy with other and more important things in life. That’s why I had kind of a hard time with this project. I feel like reading should be done when someone has some downtime and FEELS like reading, when that person has to sit down and open a book. Be able to really say the book on their own terms. I feel people, including myself, find books more enjoyable that way. With all that being said I did enjoy the books and had a hard time at some points to stop reading. I'm really glad I got to experience these books because without this project I worry I would never be able to get that experience. That would be a tragedy to me as I really enjoyed No One Writes Back by Jang Eun-jin. I would even go as far as to recommend that book to anyone who may be interested in a new book to read.

[kayla209]

introductory post

◌ Hi, my name is Kayla. I was told growing up that my name was chosen due to it meaning “gift from God”; but it was most likely also influenced by my dad’s favorite soap opera character

◌ I am white, my mother is Irish while my father is German and Italian. My grandparents on my mother’s side both immigrated from Ireland and later met each other in New York. My great-grandmothers on my father’s side immigrated from Germany and Italy respectively. 

◌ If I had the chance to change my name to any fictional character’s, I would most likely choose Lyra. I would choose this name because it is the name of the female protagonist in Pokemon Heart Gold and Soul Silver. I grew up playing these games and they are very important to me as they sparked my interest in video games as a media genre. Lyra is also a cute and simple name that I personally find aesthetically pleasing. 

◌ I have not thought about my first year of high school in a while and considering it now, I definitely do not remember the first day. I can somewhat remember the first week of high school but the days have mostly blended together. The memories I have of this first week were catching up with old friends from elementary school and attempting to navigate the new environment.

◌ The last day of high school also does not stick out in my mind. I remember my graduation day but trying to remember the last day of classes does not cause me to think of anything significant. At that point in my academic career, almost all of my classes were online due to the pandemic, which may be why it does not stick out in my mind. 

◌ My favorite moments in high school were the ones I spent in my science teacher’s class as I sat next to one of my close friends. This teacher was also one of my favorites as he had a good sense of humor and taught science in an engaging way. My friend and I would often spend our lunch periods in the classroom and our teacher allowed us to use the microwave in the back room which was a great luxury at the time. I learned a lot in that class and made some good memories while there. 

◌ My least favorite moment of high school was falling out with one of my friends. This friend was originally an art classmate of mine and we become close throughout the year but he eventually expressed his romantic attraction to me which later led to our falling out. It was hard to lose a friend in this way and I wish things had worked out differently. 

◌ I don’t really think I would want to do high school all over again. However, if I could change something about that time period, I would tell my younger self not to worry so much about everything. Throughout the first half of high school, I was often stressed out over academics and meeting my potential. I wish I did not allow my fear of failure to severely affect my mental health and that I had instead focused on my strengths. 

◌ My major is liberal arts because I can not choose a major. 

◌ I am interested in many different career paths but they are somewhat all over the place which does not help with my indecisiveness. I will probably pursue becoming a sociologist, private investigator, journalist or technical writer. These career paths interest me because the subjects that they are centered around are intriguing to me. 

◌ I enjoy skiing and also work as a ski instructor which gives me the opportunity to ski often. I was interested in a variety of sports growing up and skiing was the one that has stuck with me throughout my life. I am mostly motivated by my desire to improve my skills, the enjoyment I get out of skiing and teaching others how to improve. 

◌ A favorite show of mine that I greatly recommend is Twin Peaks. It is one of the most influential television series as its surreal tone and captivating mystery are still cited as an inspiration for writers today. 

◌ One of my favorite films is The Grand Budapest Hotel as I love Wes Anderson’s directorial style. This film portrays a quite simplistic story in an extremely effective way with its unique use of colors, framing and other components. 

◌ One of my least favorite films is DC’s Black Adam. Personally, I feel that this film is the epitome of the contemporary trope-riddled superhero movie. This film was one of the most predictable I have ever seen as I was quoting things to my friend before they occurred on screen. It almost felt like it was made as a parody of the current landscape of comic book movies but it, unfortunately, was not. 

◌ I recently have been wanting to pick up sewing and made myself a pillowcase. I have a large pillow that I did not have a well-fitting case and that is what motivated me to begin sewing. 

◌ If tomorrow were my last day on the planet, I would choose chicken and waffles as my last meal. I can’t think of a particular reason why, I have just been craving chicken and waffles for about a week now.

[ragnarockz]

Happy Canada Day and of course, Happy Canada day to all my ancestors/family in Newfoundland!

[thelastspeecher]

8 stangie (I can't pick an au not sure)

8. Strangers alone on Valentine’s day

Right away, I decided to go Restaurant AU with this.  Hopefully you like that AU.  I love Angie helping Stan make his restaurant a success through her gumption and skilled cooking.

Prompt List

——————————————————————————————        

              “I still think it was a mistake to not be open later ‘n usual,” Angie said as she wiped down a table.  “If we stayed open until, say, midnight instead of the usual closin’ time of eight, we could’ve catered to couples lookin’ fer a place to have Valentine’s dinner.”

              “Doubt it,” Stan grunted.  He squinted at the numbers in front of him.  Going over the receipts at the end of the day was his least favorite task, in part because it reminded him of how desperately he needed glasses.  “In case you haven’t noticed, this place isn’t that romantic.”  Angie propped a hand on one hip.  She had only worked for Stan for a few weeks, but he had already picked up on her body language.  He knew the pose meant she was about to argue.

              “And whose fault is that?” Angie asked.  “It would be so easy to adjust the décor a bit fer one day.”

              “I’m not gonna do that.”

              “I swear, sometimes, it feels like ya want this here restaurant to fail.”

              “Stop trying to be a psychologist or whatever.  You already told me you’re in lizard school,” Stan said.  Angie rolled her eyes.

              “I’m studyin’ herpetology, which is the science of reptiles and amphibians.”

              “Exactly.  Lizard school.”

              “Lord,” Angie muttered.  She sighed. “Well, Valentine’s has passed, but maybe we can try to do somethin’ special fer upcomin’ holidays.”

              “Hmm.  Do you have ideas?”

              “Not at the moment, but I’m sure I can come up with a few,” Angie said. She finished wiping down the tables and walked over to the booth Stan was sitting in.  “The place is all cleaned up.  Are you done with the receipts?”

              “No.”

              “Have you eaten yet?”

              “Have you?” Stan shot back.

              “I’ll take that as a no.”  Without another word, Angie left the dining area.  Faint clattering sounded from the kitchen.

              I thought she cleaned the kitchen already.  Eh.  Must’ve been wrong.

-----

              Finally, Stan finished the receipts.  He pushed everything in front of him away with a sigh of relief.  Promptly, a plate of pasta with a side of broccoli was placed in front of him.

              “Where’d this come from?” he asked out loud.

              “Prob’ly from the person what made it fer ya,” Angie said, sliding into the seat across from him with her own plate.

              “You were cooking in the kitchen?”

              “That’s what it’s for.”

              “No, I-”  Stan glared at Angie, who merely snickered softly.  “I thought you were cleaning it.”

              “I cleaned it ‘fore I cleaned the dining area.”

              “But you cooked in it again.”

              “It took me like five minutes to clean up after I made this, relax,” Angie said, rolling her eyes.  “I figured it might be nice to have dinner together ‘fore we part ways fer the night.”

              “What, like a date?” Stan asked.  Angie scowled at him.

              “No, like an employee who has realized her boss don’t take care of himself and wants to make sure he eats a vegetable fer once.”

              “All right, all right,” Stan said, holding his hands up in defeat.  “You’re lucky you work for a boss that doesn’t mind talkback.”

              “Oh, if I worked fer a boss what wanted me to be professional, I’d do that,” Angie said dismissively.  She twirled a sauce-covered noodle around her fork.  “I know how to be polite.  I just also know that politeness don’t get ya far with some folks.  Including you.”

              “Hey, I like people who are polite.”

              “Sure.  Ya like to walk over ‘em,” Angie retorted.  Stan opened his mouth.  “Eat up ‘fore it gets cold.”

              “Don’t need to tell me twice,” Stan said, eagerly spearing a piece of broccoli.  While they ate, Stan remembered the suggestion Angie’d had earlier.  “Say, uh, the thing you said before about doing special stuff for holidays…”

              “What about it?” Angie asked.

              “It’s not a half-bad idea.”  Angie’s face lit up.  “I don’t really keep track of those sorts of things, though, so I don’t know what all is coming up.”

              “I think the closest holiday what establishments tend to do stuff fer is St. Patrick’s Day.”

              “St. Paddy’s Day, huh?” Stan said thoughtfully.  He nodded slowly.  “Sounds good to me.  Maybe do some deal on beers or make up some green cocktails.  I mean, the day’s basically just an excuse to get wasted and wear green.”  Angie scowled.  “What?”

              “I don’t really like what’s been done to St. Patrick’s Day in the US,” Angie mumbled, pushing her food around her plate with a fork.  Stan raised an eyebrow.  “Y’know my last name is McGucket, right?”

              “You’re Irish?”

              “Well, Irish-American.  My great-grandparents came over from Ireland and settled in Arkansas.  Pa made sure to instill in all of his kids a great respect fer our heritage.  There was a small church a couple towns over what did services in Gaelic on St. Paddy’s Day, so we’d go there fer mass.  The day celebrates Saint Patrick, who, according to legend, banished all the snakes from Ireland.”

              “Wait, why would you like the holiday if you’re at reptile school and this guy got rid of snakes?” Stan asked.

              “He did other things.  That’s just one of the things he’s well known fer.  I’m tryin’ to explain the holiday’s origins.”

              “So, St. Patrick’s Day wasn’t made just to get wasted?” Stan asked. Angie frowned at him.

              “Is any holiday?” she asked.  Stan thought for a second.

              “Oktoberfest.”

              “You weren’t that great at history in school, were ya?”

              “Nope!” Stan said cheerfully.  He looked down at his food.  “If it offends you that much, we won’t do stuff for St. Paddy’s Day.  No skin off my nose to not do extra work.”

              “No, it’s not-”  Angie sighed. “We can do somethin’ fun fer St. Paddy’s Day.  But maybe not focus on the alcohol aspect so much?”

              “What do you want to focus on, then?”

              “Well, this is a restaurant,” Angie pointed out.  “I could whip up some traditional Irish recipes ‘n adapt ‘em to suit an American palate.”  She grinned. “Heck, I could have ya be a taste tester.”

              “I do like to eat,” Stan said dryly.  Angie giggled.  Stan felt his cheeks redden.

              Shit.  That was…cute.  No, Stan, she’s your employee.  And she would be pissed as hell if her boss even seemed like he was gonna make a move on her.

              “We can get green decorations, maybe make mint milkshakes.”

              “Like McDonald’s does?” Stan asked.

              “Yes.  But better.” Angie winked.  “‘Cause I’ll be makin’ ‘em.”  Stan chuckled.  Angie ducked her head, poorly hiding a faint blush.

              “Sounds good, Ang.  We can make more plans tomorrow.”  Angie nodded. “But you should probably head home. It’s getting pretty late.”

              “Yeah.”  Angie got up. She reached for her plate.

              “No, I’ll clean it up,” Stan said.

              “Don’t you have to go home?”

              “You already did almost all the cleaning,” Stan replied.  Angie frowned at him.  For a moment, Stan worried she had noticed he was dodging the question.

              “Who are ya and what have ya done with my boss?” she asked, dispelling Stan’s concerns.  “The Stanley Pines I know don’t clean if he can get away with it.”  Stan shrugged and stood up.

              “Maybe you just don’t know me that well,” he retorted.  Angie rolled her eyes.  “See you tomorrow morning, McGucket.”  Angie grabbed her purse.

              “See you tomorrow,” she said.  She left the restaurant, the bell on the door jingling as she walked out. Stan picked up the two dirty plates, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

              Not too shabby for a Valentine’s Day dinner.  Definitely better than the last five or so.

[krazyclue]

Italian in Name Only

I am a mixtape of European influences, but the two biggest are Italian and Irish, so it's maybe ironic that I've never been much for family. Not hostile toward it, more like disinterested.

 Italians and the Irish have the reputation of being devoted to their families. If there's nothing quite like a good Catholic upbringing mixed with poverty to convince people to have loads of children, then being middle-class and an only child is the antidote. Never wanted children, never wanted to be part of a family, didn't even really have a notion of them. I just never thought about it.

 Not until lately anyway, and I do not mean in the sense of having children myself. I mean of being suddenly conscious of a growing need to know what my origins are, to see how I somehow fit into the larger concept of a family. When my ancestors arrived in America, what they did once they got here, and how that differs from or mirrors what other families have found. This desire might have something to do with the pandemic and all that time spent alone when the world was shut down—the isolation making me want to reconnect and do so on a deeper level.  

Most of my knowledge of Italy is from the movies, design, and fashion. My understanding of Ireland is even more limited since I spent my only visit there wandering between pubs listening to white guys with 'dreads spinning drum'n'bass. I don't speak any Italian beyond a stray "Ciao, Bella" or "Vaffanculo." I know the second one because English soccer fans used it in a taunting chant whenever they played Italian teams ("Where were you in World War 2? VA-FFAN-CULO!!"). My father spoke fluent Italian when he was a child but forgot most of it in adulthood.  My immediate family is small and spread by time, distance, and some animosity; I know very little about most of the members of my extended one. If I have cultural heritage, it's hard to know what it is.

 I am not at all sure what made me start to think this way. It could have been watching the HBO adaptation of My Brilliant Friend, based on Elena Ferrante's novels. The show is a portrait of two women growing up in 50's Naples. We see their lives against a backdrop of a country coming fitfully to life after the devastation following the Second World War, its progress held back by repressive patriarchy. Grim moments often give way to more ecstatic ones before doubling back again the other way, leading to emotionally vivid set pieces that capture the personal and historical in the same scene. The score by Max Richter alone can induce yearning and seeing the young, very inexperienced cast gradually develop into compelling actors makes the whole experience unforgettable, like the best work of the Italian neorealist cinema.

 But My Brilliant Friend is set in Naples, and my family is from Tuscany. Italy, like the States, is a country of regions that do not always like each other, the north versus the south, and my ancestors would have been culturally different from the show's characters. Still, carried by the show, I find myself more and more drawn to thinking about Italy—I have roots in Germany and France as well, but for some reason, Italy is the country for which I feel the strongest connection. 

 Possibly I am entirely led by my stomach. Early in the pandemic, I started getting into Italian cooking, going carefully through a copy of Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking by Marcella Hasan, who you might call the Julia Child of that countries' cuisine. I have a copy of Silver Spoon too, a compendium of real recipes from Italian families, from which I've made a few dishes, and I have my grandmother's pasta maker, and somewhere on an index card her hand-written ravioli recipe. It took all day for her and my grandfather to make that recipe; she stirred the slow simmering meat and prepared the ingredients, and my grandfather painstakingly sealed each ravioli with a fork.

 My German grandfather may have loved his pig's feet and pickled herring, but that obsession thankfully was not passed onto me, nor, as far as I know, to anyone else in my family. I might like a good stout too, even some Irish stew on occasion, but it's Italian food that captures my imagination. I am only beginning to know how each region has shaped that cuisine and the influences that created so many varied dishes. 

 I have not kept up with my family. I hardly know most of them, and outside of my parents and my uncle, I am not in touch with any other relatives. I forget the birthdays of even the closest friends and family; I must mark them on a calendar, or I'll miss the day altogether. My uncle has become something of the family historian and has been sending emails to nearly a dozen family relations. While I do recognize many of the names, there are far more that I do not remember and at least two I only know of by reputation. There are also people I met on that list, only once or twice, and those I saw most often were back when my grandparents were making their famous ravioli to go along with the Thanksgiving turkey, and that was a long time ago now.

 Those emails coincide with my awakening interest in my origins. I know a few more names now: my great grandparents Enea and Italia Lorenzetti emigrated here in 1916 and had two sons; my grandmother's dislike for Enea, a man with old-world beliefs who thought women shouldn't drive, my grandfather's brother, who threatened to walk out if Enea told them how to run their business; a rift with the Catholic Church because a priest wouldn't baptize Enea's and Italia's daughter unless they paid him an indulgence, and that the girl died soon after.

I've seen family photos, the people captured in those images ghost-like in those black and white pictures, and since I am such a mongrel, I do not look at all like them. Of course, I'd like to know more, but really, what I want is a better sense of what Italy is and why I feel so drawn toward it, not only the particulars of my one family's experience. I will start getting to know my family, but that is only the beginning of reconnecting, not its conclusion.

As I read and study (and hopefully get to make that first trip to Italy after the pandemic canceled my trip scheduled for last October), I want to know Italy without romanticizing it. You can convince yourself that life is better "over there" when it's probably the same or worse. Okay, maybe better too, possibly much better. But I don't want to become an obsessive Italy fan. Or fall for obvious cliches—about how Italy is a place where people know how to live. Italians are all passionate and stylish, speaking with their hands, operatic and over the top, and all the other hot-blooded Italian tropes. I'm sure there's some truth there as well.

But Italy also had one of the worst Covid-19 outbreaks and still struggles with a government, often in disarray, that cannot impede the dominance of the Camorra clans in Naples. And Italy still hasn't quite overcome the legacy of Mussolini: a far-right movement led by Matteo Salvini remains threateningly close to taking power, a rise aided by racism and xenophobia. I do not want to idealize or unfairly condemn the place, but rather know Italy and its' people for whatever they are, so I can see how it shaped myself and my family. I want to take pictures in the streets, wander without a plan until I got lost and needed one. Maybe discover my operatic personality.

 Coming out of this lockdown, old age not quite here but getting closer, as in just around the corner smoking a cigarette close, with the world isolated from itself, without any family of my own; maybe that is what sparked this need to connect with a sense of place, a sense of family. That's what being "white" can mean—it's when you've become so absorbed into American culture that your ancestry seems like it started around about 1980 (in my case anyway). I used to joke that my cultural heritage was shopping malls and Back to the Future movies at the multiplex.

 I think that has some advantages to being part of a well-defined community or coming from a large extended family. If you have no family, you won't be assigned an identity by what they think you should be. You won't have as many expectations about your choices before you get to choose for yourself.

 The problem is that you also have no sense of history or your heritage or how your small part fits into it the larger story. You are isolated. You can claim America, the nation of immigrants, but you make a claim not knowing where your people came from, and that might be the worst side effect of assimilation: forgetting the past. I've never known much about mine. I regret letting so much time slip before realizing family and heritage are so important. Now I am going to do my best to embrace my past, whatever it may be. 

[manbomary]

Dear White People: You were colonized too

Hi, white people! How’s it going? Come on in; I just put the coffee on.

 How do you take it? Cream? Sweetener? Oh, I nearly forgot. Here’s some Nilla wafers. I even put them on a plate for you. I’m not an animal, after all.

 Oh, you want a cold brew? Sorry, I’m clean out.

 Anyway, on to the reason why I called you here today.

Let’s address the spiritual elephant in the room. Actually, let’s address the spiritual elephant in America. I’m not talking about what church you go to, or what religion you were raised in, or even if you believe in God at all. I’m talking about something else. Something that didn’t even originate in America.

 It originated in Europe, a very long time ago, before any of your family thought of coming here as migrants. You know, migrants that may have left a country where they were being oppressed, or not free to practice their religion, or there were no jobs or food…

 Sorry, did that strike a nerve? Have another Nilla wafer.

 You have a spiritual unease, white people. This is beyond religion or dogma. This is much deeper.

I’m saying you were robbed. You were robbed a long, long time ago. You were robbed of your culture and heritage.

I know, I know, you’re getting defensive. I get it. I know exactly what you’re thinking:

“I have my heritage! My great-grandparents are from Ireland and Germany!”

Wonderful. What is the indigenous religion of those countries?

“…well, my family is Christian.”

No, I mean before that.

“Huh?”

See, that’s what I mean. Christianity did not originate in places like Ireland and Germany. It was brought there by colonizers.

Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. First, there were the Romans. The Romans were, like, the bomb at colonizing. They were everywhere. Their armies spread all over Europe and to the Middle East. In many cases, the Romans would move into an area and set up temples to their Roman gods. Local folks were usually allowed to keep worshipping their local gods but were also forced to sacrifice to Roman gods (including the emperor, who was viewed as a deity).

That was the first instance of colonization.

When Christianity became the official religion of the Roman Empire in the year 380 C.E., the second and perhaps greatest colonization began. Missionaries began going through Europe to spread the message of Christianity to the indigenous people of Europe. Wherever the missionaries went, they preached to the people that their gods and spirits were demons, that following Christianity was the only legitimate religion, and they’d better practice it or else.

As the missionaries grew in power, as more and more leaders became Christian (sometimes for political or strategic reasons rather than true spiritual conversion), the preaching became aggression. The sacred tree groves of the Celts in Ireland, England, and France were chopped down and the wood used to build Christian churches. Temples to gods that had stood for hundreds of years were razed.

Now, I’m not saying that Christianity is inherently bad, or that if you’re a Christian and white that you yourself are responsible for all these things. However, white folks, we bear those scars of colonization in our souls.

I know you’ve felt it. You may have heard stories that your older relatives told of how things were in Italy or Ireland or Germany, folk stories and beliefs. You may have heard of the fairy folk, of how trees and plants had magical properties.  I know you’ve heard of some of the “old” gods: Thor, Freya, Brigid, Athena…and you may have felt something in your soul. Something that feels longing. What would it have been like to live and know these old gods as your own? Your grandparents may have told you stories of their parents and grandparents. You heard stories of your grandfathers who fought in wars, your great-aunts who were healers or herbalists. What would it be like to have those stories be real?

I have news for you: they are. You just don’t realize it because colonization took away your opportunity to continue the old ways of your indigenous ancestors.

The Native people of what is now the United States had their lands invaded by people from another land who forced their ways and religion and laws on them. Where did these invaders (Europeans) learn how to do that? Because it was done to them.

African people were ripped from their homelands and forced into slavery in a far-off land. They were punished or killed for practicing their native religions and cultures. Christianity and imperialism told the invaders, slavers, and Conquistadors that their religious belief in spreading the Gospel of Christ justified their actions.

This same obsession with spreading the Gospel and converting the heathens that saw Africans and Native American peoples as less than human, primitive, and available to be exploited is the same force that colonized your indigenous ancestors.

How’s the coffee? It’s a fair-trade blend from Haiti. Se anpil gou, wi?

 Anyway, what I’m saying is the unease and discomfort you feel when you see Native peoples having a pow wow, or Black folks practicing Lukumi, or Latinos celebrating Day of the Dead, that weird jealous/indignant feeling, and the thought of “Why do they get to shove their ethnicity in our faces?”

That’s because you were colonized too, and your deep ancestral knowledge and heritage was taken away from you. A part of your, OUR, collective soul as indigenous European descendants was cut out. Our ancestral healers and herbalists were burned or hanged as witches. Ancient gods and land spirits were diminished into ghost tales and “superstitions”. And we have taken that energy of colonization, the energy that destroyed our indigenous culture, and foisted it onto Native Americans and the Africans brought to this side of the world and enslaved.

 Don’t look so down, white people. There is hope. You can start decolonizing yourself.

How?

Start with your ancestors. Get a white candle, light it, and put out a glass of plain water. Talk out loud to your ancestors, saying, “Ancestors of my blood, I ask those who lived well and died well to guide me to learn about the pre-Christian and pre-colonization beliefs and culture of your time.”

Do this once a week. Then pay attention. You might start having dreams. You might feel led to certain books, to ask living relatives what stories of your family they remember. Take notes. Don’t feel like you’re going crazy. You’re not.

You’re reconnecting.

This won’t be easy. Cultures like the Celts and Germanic people (just as an example) did not leave written records about themselves. You’ll be led to do more and more research, but you don’t have to turn into a research nut. Keep calling on your elevated ancestors and they will lead you in the right direction.

There are people out there who are trying to reconstruct ancient European pagan traditions. Some of them are getting things right, some of them are fronts for nationalist “white pride” groups. Don’t let them bullshit you. Vet people and check them before you get sucked into something awful.

Anyway, that’s all for now. Thanks for stopping by; come back any time.

Hey, take an extra Nilla wafer. When you get home, find a nice tree on your property and leave the cookie there for the land spirit.

Start small, act humbly, talk from the heart, and you can get decolonized.

[alaynemoonstone-blog]

Bran Stark the Trout of Knowledge

So I was at my grandparents house the other day and so were a few of my cousins, who are all 8-12 years younger than me. My grandfather was telling them some stories about Irish legends and folklore, like he used to tell me when I was younger, and he told them the story of the Salmon of Knowledge. As I was listening to the story I realized it reminded me a lot of Bran.

The story of the Salmon of Knowledge goes like this:

There was an ordinary salmon ate nine hazelnuts that fell into the Well of Wisdom and from nine hazel trees that surrounded the well. As a result, the salmon gained all the world's knowledge and the first to eat of its flesh would gain it's knowledge.

A young Fionn Mac Cumhail, the legendary Irish warrior and hunter who led the band of warriors known as the Fianna and created the famous Giants Causeway was helping the poet Finegas, one of the wisest men in Ireland, who had tried for seven years to catch the fish but to no avail.

Fionn was unaware of the legend about the salmon of knowledge. When Fionn asked Finegas why he spend his days fishing, Finegas would give him no answer. Then one morning, Finegas had caught the salmon.

Finegas gave the fish to Fionn, and told him to cook it with instructions not to eat it. Fionn then built a fire and cooked the salmon, however when he was turning it, he burnt his finger on a drop of hot fish fat. Fionn sucked on his burned finger to ease the pain. Unbeknownst to Fionn, all of the salmon's wisdom had been concentrated into that one drop of fat.

When he brought the cooked meal to Finegas, Finegas saw that the Fionn's eyes shone with an unseen wisdom. Finegas asked Fionn if he had eaten any of the salmon, to which Fionn answered no, and Fionn proceeded to explain what had happened. Finegas realized that Fionn had received the wisdom, so gave him the rest of the salmon to eat. Fionn ate the salmon and in so doing gained all the knowledge of the world. Fionn could from then on draw upon this knowledge from the salmon by biting his thumb.

Fionn is connected to many of the legends of the Fenian Cycle in Irish mythology, however it is this tale where he first came to prominence.

The similarities to Bran:

Both Fionn and Bran are young young boys how are given great knowledge that marks the beginning of their epic journeys.

In the story, Fionn gains the knowledge of the world through an injury, and the beginning of Bran's metaphysical awakening truly begins after he is crippled by Jaime.

The origin of the knowledge gained by Fionn and Bran derives from trees. Hazel trees in Fionns case and Weirwoods and Bran's.

Both have a wise, older mentor who guides them in their story. Finegas for Fionn and Bloodraven for Bran.

The Fish:

Bran himself actually has quite a bit of Salmon of Knowledge symbolism as well.

An interesting thing to note in regards to these to stories is the animal from which Fionn gains his knowledge, a salmon. Salmon are closely related to another kind of fish, the trout.

Bran's mother is Catelyn Tully, whose family sigil is a trout.

Bran himself actually has the Tully look of auburn hair and blue eyes, not the traditional Stark look.

In Irish mythology the fish also represents renewed and sustained life, which fits with Bran surviving his ordeal with the tower and the Catspaw, who his mother Catelyn (a trout) helped protect him from.

Irish influences with Bran's name:

The Salmon isn't the only Irish influence on Bran however:

Bran was the name of one of the dogs belonging to the aforementioned, Fionn Mac Cumhail.

The names Branaddov meaning 'Black Raven' and Branogenos meaning 'Raven Born' are both inscribed on Ogham stones (Ogham is the earliest form of writing in Ireland) in Gearha South, Co. Cork and Barnaveddoge, Co. Louth respectively.

Breandán is an Irish name meaning 'prince' that was Anglicised to Brendan or Brandon.

Side note:

GRRM has confirmed that he has taken inspiration from Irish mythology in the past in an email to Tommy Patterson in which GRRM compares the Others to the Sidhe:

"'The Others are not dead. They are strange, beautiful… think, oh… the Sidhe made of ice, something like that… a different sort of life… inhuman, elegant, dangerous.'"

The Sidhe are a race in Irish mythology akin to fairies or elves, who are said to live underground in fairy mounds, across the western sea, or in an invisible world that coexists with the world of humans.

[kelseysam]

Richard Crooks

Today, I added a new song to my favorites list titled: "Mi par d'udir Ancora" an opera song sung by my cousin, Richard Crooks. Richard was an opera tenor and a lead singer of the New York Metropolitan Opera, both a place and relative I had no idea existed until a few weeks ago.

My last name is odd, but the amount of family I have makes the Kennedys seem like a small clan, meaning I never rule out anyone with the Crooks name. The origin of my last name comes from the name Crooke, and the earliest recording of that name dates to pre-1700. Andrew and William Crooke were English publishers, significant in publishing Renaissance dramas and plays. From there, my family's origin doesn't resurface until we arrive in America from Ireland in 1800, where we reemerge as the Crooks.  

To explain, this isn't the first time in life I have stumbled upon relatives I didn't know I had. The problem with Irish migrants is that not only when they arrived in America their last names were changed or misspelled, but they also landed here without any documentation. My immediate clan were farmers, and from what I was told, we settled in Virginia and made our way down to upstate South Carolina, landing in Seneca. Having a great grandfather who was one of thirteen children and a grandfather who was one of eight makes for many cousins, but my elders were never much for sharing their lives and origins. We are a family of many secret affairs, secret love children, and not-so-secret alcoholics. Making my search of how Richard came into play feel like the most complicated piece to a puzzle. Not surprised but curious, I immediately started looking for where that piece fit; once I discovered that Richards parents were cousins of my great grandparents, it all made sense.

Richard Crooks was born the second son of Alexander and Elizabeth Crooks on June 26, 1900, in Trenton, New Jersey. Following several concert seasons as an oratorio and song recital specialist, including the American premiere of Mahler's Das Lied von der Erde, he traveled to Germany, where he made his operatic debut in Hamburg Cavaradossi in Puccini's Tosca in 1927. After his tour in other European cities such as Berlin, he returned to the US and made his American debut in 1930 in Philadelphia. He became a lead star of the Metropolitan Opera in New York, specializing in French and Italian operas. He participated in the farewell gala on March 29, 1936, for Spanish soprano Lucrezia Bori, which was broadcast nationally.

From 1928 to 1945, Crooks was the host of "The Voice of Firestone" radio broadcasts, in which he sang operatic arias, patriotic songs, folk songs, and popular hits such as "People Will Say We're In Love" from Rodgers and Hammerstein's Oklahoma! in 1943. He also appeared on radio broadcasts with Bing Crosby, who remained a friend until Crooks' death.

For his work in recording, he was awarded a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, located at 1648 Vine Street.

A lot of information to take in, and none of which I’ve been exposed to living in Greenville for almost thirty years.  I am vocally challenged, just like the rest of my family who cannot carry a tune, so to find that a member of our family helped craft an entire genre of music and was rewarded for it immensely is quite remarkable. This fan of my cousin is one of many, and the reason he reached out to me is because, like myself, he couldn't figure out which Crooks was a descendant. I had no idea until my research that I have almost forty other cousins just on Richards's side of the family. I explained to this fan that he could jump off a boat into the middle of the ocean without knowing how to swim and have a better chance at surviving than I would have finding which relative possess the item he is trying to find. Richard's children have already passed away, and his many grandchildren are impossible to find since they are spread all over the west coast, his great-grandchildren, and even their children, I don't have names for. Thanks to his many fans, this has shed light on another part of my family I didn't know I had.

If I could find these cousins and understand more about Richard and his legacy, that would be great. It would explain a lot of creativity in my genetics (not the singing kind, of course). I will continue to find answers from his fans and the recorded stories of his work until I can't compile anymore. Maybe one day, I will get to speak with the family I don't know and remind them what so many still love about Richard's music and contributions to opera.

[xtruss]

A Candid Moment with America's Most Famous Family

Revisiting the Kennedys' final summer together.

— August 13, 2021 | Kirstin Butler | PBS - American Experience

President John F. Kennedy, John F. Kennedy, Jr., Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy, and Caroline Kennedy with their dogs during a summer weekend in Hyannis Port, Massachusetts, August 14, 1963. Photo by Cecil B. Stoughton.

It is a typical snapshot of a family on vacation: father, mother, daughter, son and their dogs on the patio in the August sun. Less typical are their roles: President, First Lady, First Family. The scene’s placidity belies what had already been a tumultuous summer.

The Kennedy administration kicked off the season with its move on June 11 to deputize federal marshals to ensure admission of two Black students to the University of Alabama, against threats by the state's famously segregationist governor to block their attendance. Later that same night, Kennedy took action unprecedented for a sitting president: He gave a nationally televised address urging Congress to enact federal legislation banning segregation. “We are confronted primarily with a moral issue,” he asserted. “It is as old as the Scriptures and is as clear as the American Constitution. The heart of the question is whether all Americans are to be afforded equal rights and equal opportunities. Whether we are going to treat our fellow Americans as we want to be treated.”

Two weeks later, on June 26, Kennedy made another memorable speech in Germany. After receiving an ovation lasting several minutes, he addressed an audience of around one million gathered outside West Berlin’s city hall. It was the first time a U.S. president had visited since the city was divided by the Berlin Wall nearly two years earlier. “All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin,” Kennedy said, “and therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words, 'Ich bin ein Berliner.’” It was a strong expression of solidarity with the citizens of West Berlin, who were surrounded on all sides by Soviet-controlled East German territory.

The President continued on to Ireland. All eight of his great-grandparents had emigrated from that country to Boston, Massachusetts, and he expressed his connection to his ancestors’ place of origin. “This is not the land of my birth,” he told the citizens of Limerick, “but it is the land for which I hold the greatest affection.”

Then, only two weeks before this photo was taken, the United States and the Soviet Union signed the Limited Nuclear Ban Test Treaty after more than eight years of negotiations. For the first time since the start of the Cold War, both countries pledged to work towards complete nuclear disarmament.

Throughout that momentous summer, the president and his family retreated to what they called “the big house,” the Kennedy family compound in Hyannis Port, Massachusetts overlooking the Atlantic. It would be their final summer together before Kennedy’s assassination later that year. “We are tied to the ocean,” the President once observed, “and when we go back to the sea, whether to sail or to watch, we are going back to whence we came.”

[mcneelamusic]

The History and Evolution of the Irish Bodhran

At the beginning of every lecture I try to keep it light and engage with all the students. To get the students attention I’ve come up with a fun approach. I start by saying “The facts you are about to hear are all lies!” It definitely grabs their attention immediately and I have 150 faces looking at me blankly!

My statement is of course not true. However, I’ve spent many years researching the bodhrán and honestly I’ve learned that there is no definitive history of the bodhran in Ireland. We can only rely on word of mouth (more like Chinese whispers), handed down through the years by the many generations.

The information and stories we hear are all narrated to us by our parents and grandparents. In other words, the history of the bodhrán is only hearsay. We have little concrete information.

If you research the history of the bodhran online, you will come across several quite varied opinions of the drum’s roots. Many claim it is an ancient druidic drum. Below are some of the theories which exist.

A trade route for the bodhrán could be traced back to over several millennia ago. The trade route may have been in Persia. This is supposedly where the drum frame originated.

The reason people believe the drum originated from Persia is due to its use for the act of winnowing, or separating seeds. This seems the most likely source, as this is what provided the basic drum for most of the other frame drumming cultures.

More recently, it’s believed that the bodhran may have come from North Africa. Frame drums are very popular in this region and are usually played by hand. This North African instrument, called the bendir was played in Ancient Egypt. As Ireland traded with Mediterranean countries, this makes it a likely theory.

This theory is based on use of the bodhran as a tool for dyeing wool. It’s believed that the rim could have been made of bent willow with the skin stretched and tied over the circular willow, then punctured to allow the dye to pass through. The popular colours for dyeing would have been purple (from the flower of the heather), green (from vegetables) and orange (from carrots). Purple and green are known as the Celtic colours.

Interestingly, the bodhran was also used in battle as a war drum. This was to raise the temper of the fighting men against the enemy.

The bodhran was first mentioned in folklore. this comes from our grandparents and they probably heard it from their grandparents and this was with regards to The Wren. The Wren is said to have been a pagan ritual, so we presume the bodhrán was used around the 18th century, however it may have been introduced centuries before that, there’s no evidence of how far back it goes.

John B Keane wrote a book called the The Bodhrán Makers, it’s a good novel, however it’s not a history book! After years of research, it’s remarkable that there’s still no written history in existence and at this stage most likely there never will be.

We know that the bodhrán has been in existence for many years, it’s now as popular as ever, but what made it so popular those many years ago?

After doing much research, I found the basis of what made the bodhrán so popular and ironically it was used as a beat played to the music on the day of The Wren, also known as Saint Stephen’s Day, which takes place December 26th.

So what was The Wren? It was when a group of men dressed up in straw hats and skirts, they blackened their faces with soot and entertained their local population by going from house to house playing traditional music and dancing in payment for food, money or drink and of course the craic which came with it! They were known as wrenboys, mummers or strawboys. This pagan tradition dates back a millennium, this means if the bodhrán was used, it goes as far back as then.

Legend has it that St Stephen was betrayed by a chattering wren while hiding from his enemies. The wren like St Stephen would be hunted down and stoned to death.

Another legend holds that during the Viking raids of the sixth century, Irish soldiers were betrayed by a wren as they were sneaking up on a Viking camp in the dead of night. The wren began eating crumbs left on a bodhrán drum head and the rat-a-tat-tat of his beak on the drumhead woke the drummer who sounded the alarm. The Irish were subsequently defeated and the wren blamed.

So if The Wren was celebrated as early as the first millennium it is possible that the bodhrán was also around at that time.

The wren the wren the king of all birds,

On Stephens Day was caught in the furze,

Although he is little his family is great,

I pray you lady you give us a treat.

My box would speak if it had only a tongue,

And two or three shillings would do it no wrong,

Sing holly sing ivy-sing ivy sing holly,

A drop just to drink would drown melancholy.

And if you draw it of the best,

I hope in heaven your soul will rest,

But if you draw it of the small,

It won’t agree with these wrenboys at all.

First Recordings of the Bodhrán

The bodhrán was first recorded in the 1920’s, it was recorded on a 78 record. It became popular in the fifties and sixties with the renewal in popularity of traditional Irish music and this gave life to the bodhrán makers of the sixties, such as Sonny Davey from Sligo, Charlie Byrne from Tipperary, Paddy Clancy from Limerick and many more.

Bodhrán-making became a cottage industry. In 1978, I joined the fraternity known as The Bodhrán Makers. An bodhrán was promoted by Seán O’Riada in his arrangements for Ceoltóirí Chualann, who later became The Chieftains, and was preferred by Seán to the snare drum used in the céilí bands.

The word bodhrán could also mean deafner, possibly as the wren boys used it to make a lot of noise. According to John B the wren boys sometimes added flattened pennies to the sides to make a jingle and hence the name bourine, short for tambourine.

The Much Maligned Bodhrán Player

The bodhran is regarded by some with derision, or at best suspicion. There are reasons behind this attitude, though I would obviously disagree myself.

The bodhrán seems easy to play. To the non-musician who wants to be thought of as a musician, the bodhrán would appear to be an easily acquired passport into a select company. Or it may be that he perceives the music as an entertainment with which everyone may, or should, join in. Whatever the motivation, the results are sometimes dreadful; a piano accordion, for example, accompanied by a battering of four or five aspiring bodhrán players, all producing personal variations on what they think is the beat is hardly likely to be music.

On the other hand the bodhrán can give a good lift to a session or to solo playing. The combination of the Irish flute and bodhrán is a well-tried one and many flute players like a good bodhrán accompaniment.

The bodhrán frame is made from a variety of different timbers, the most popular being plywood. The use of crossbars gives added strength to the frame. Goatskin is mainly used, but I have heard of people using a variety of animal skins. Goats are not killed for their skins. The skin is a byproduct. The skins that are used today come from a variety of countries mainly Ireland, North Africa, India and Pakistan.

To finish off, a researcher friend of mine was researching the word bodhrán and believes that it comes from the Irish word bodhraigh, which means anger or aggravate. Relate this to winnowing, the separating of the wheat from the chaff. As the wheat bounced against the skin, the wheat is agitated and the chaff separates. So the agricultural tool used to perform this operation could well be called a bodhrán.

So there you have it. A brief history of the bodhran. Though much information is speculation, this, in my professional opinion, is the most likely history of the bodhran.

If you’re taken with this legendary Irish instrument and want to try it yourself, have a read of my Expert Guide to Buying a Bodhran. It will teach you everything you need to know to about the mechanics of this seemingly simple instrument.

[fireandgloryrpg]

Congratulations Nate and welcome! We’re so happy to accept your application to play Murdoch “Murdo” Fitzgerald with the faceclaim of Joe Anderson (younger resources) in Fire & Glory RPG! We can’t wait to begin roleplaying with you so please remember to look over our checklist!  

!! tw: drug use, addiction mention, needles !!

Out of Character Information:

Name: Nate

Pronouns: He\Him

Age: June 27th, 1991 - which makes me 26 now. Ugh.

Timezone: -3GMT

Activity: Working 10 hours a day, weekdays may be too busy for me to post sometimes, but I’ll try to keep up with the dash anyway. Saturdays and tuesdays tend to be quieter. I’ll be mostly on during my days off - sunday and monday, and though I may be a little slow, my activity tends to be steady.

Original Character Application:

Name: Murdoch “Murdo” Naoise Fitzgerald

Age and Birthday: 25 years old - december 13th.

Faceclaim: Joe Anderson. Second option: Domhnall Gleeson.

Heritage: Son of Liber, god of Freedom, Civil Disobedience, Fertility, Inebriation and Wine. Legacy of Venus (4th generation) and legacy of Luna (5th generation), a heritage of the Fitzgerald family.

ABILITIES:

[Charmspeak]: Liber is commonly associated to freedom of speech, and it was during festivities in his name, such as the Liberalia, that common folk had the opportunity of speak up - frequently against the government and Rome’s strict hierarchy and class system. Being both a son of Liber and a legacy of Venus, Murdoch has a natural ability to convince listeners of his ideas when he speaks, and move crowds with unnatural charisma - specially when it encourages rebellion and civil disobedience. His voice can provoke a dangerous state of unrest in his listeners and heighten up their aggression levels.

[Water to Wine]: Being a son of the ancient god of inebriation and wine, Murdoch has the convenient ability of turning water into wine. It usually works as a great party trick. His connection to Liber, however, also makes him particularly susceptible to substance abuse and addiction of all kinds.

[Fertility Boost]: Being celebrated as the god of male fertility, as well as the god of sexual freedom, Liber has granted his children the uncommon ability of heightening fertility levels around them - it affects both crops and people, and it may cause those around him to feel heightened desire and attraction. It also causes a strange bump in natality whenever he’s near.

Affiliation: Murdoch spent two years in the First Cohort before dropping out, much to his family’s embarrassment. But that was before the fires, before prison - before he left as a wanted man. Now he’s back, a persona non grata in New Rome, and he doesn’t really belong anywhere but behind bars, according to those that still remember.

Headcanons:

[The Irish Jesus]: During his time in the outside world, Murdoch has become popular among the hobos, prostitutes and criminals. Delivering inflamed monologues at parks and streets, he soon gained a steady following. Maybe it was the party trick that finally did it - turning all that water into wine may not have been his brightest idea, but when word got around, people were soon calling him the Irish Jesus. Murdoch would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the attention (“well, I AM son of a god, maybe not THAT god, so it’s not exactly a lie–”), but there was only so much he could do for those new age lepers, besides inspiring them to rise up and fight for themselves.

[The Monsters Within]: Though Murdoch has faced and escaped many monsters during the ten long years he spent in the outside world, some of the toughest ones weren’t mythological beasts. There were monsters, he learned, that lived inside a needle, and there were monsters that lived inside a bottle. Addiction was a harder beast to slay than most monsters. There is a dark side to Liber and his celebration of debauchery, and now Murdoch is very careful in indulging freely in some of life’s pleasures. Freedom, he’s learned, can be both intoxicating and dangerous.

Biography:

!! tw: drug use, addiction mention, needles !!

Every family has a black sheep. That one relative mothers use as a cautionary tale - do you want to end up like your cousin? That one person no one talks about until one drunk uncle lets the name slip after too many drinks in a family’s gathering, and then there’s an uncomfortable silence, followed by quiet sneer. Everyone knows that one guy that has been burned off the family tree, the unfortunate son among well behaved siblings, the stain in an otherwise pure heritage of proud romans.  

To the Fitzgeralds, that’s Murdoch.

They always knew he was wild - restless like a caged bird, bearing his father’s free spirit like a family heirloom. Murdoch could never sit straight, could never just be quiet. He was the boy that talked too much, the boy that wouldn’t listen. Years later, they’d ask themselves if they could have known, as people often do when faced with tragedy. Did something in the mischievous smile of that little boy in the family portraits give away what he’d one day become? Some blamed nature - born into a strong military family, Liber’s love of freedom and lack of discipline was frowned upon, and no severe training could bend Murdoch to their ways. Some, however, blamed nurture - at the peak of her military career and well into the path to become the new Praetor, Oleana Fitzgerald had no time for children. The same day her son was born, she was back in her cohort, spear and shield in hand. Murdoch was left to be raised by his grandparents - and that sting of rejection was the first spark to what would one day become a fire.

Oleana wasn’t around much as Murdoch grew up - first, she was too busy with her military career. Then, she was undone by an accident during War Games. Confined to a wheelchair, she left New Rome for Ireland and upon her return, once again pregnant, they had already become strangers to each other. At six years old, Murdoch was wild; a hurricane shaped like a child, prone to wandering too far and getting himself - and his pack of friends - in big trouble. The birth of a sibling did nothing to calm his temper, as rejection stung deeper - Oleana clung to the new baby like a lifeline, and her first son, unruly and loud, could never quite fit her idea of a warrior.

But time is relentless and the years turned Murdoch into a fine young man, divided between the free spirit inherited from his father, and the wish for his mother’s affection. Following her footsteps, he joined the first cohort, but her eyes were always on Murdoch’s brother, intent in making the perfect soldier out of him. Murdoch grew angry - and that teenage anger was the perfect fuel for the rebellion that was his godly inheritance by birthright. More interested in politics and parties than swords and the battlefield, he soon became a dissident voice against New Rome’s outdated system - and the corruption brewing underneath it by the hands of the Cult. Nothing but a mild embarrassment, the Fitzgeralds thought; every family has that one kid - it was just a phase.

That was, until the fires started.

At first they were small and contained - an experiment for what was to come. Then, they got bigger - more than casual vandalism, they were a message. There were four confirmed criminal fires in key government buildings, after work hours, before Murdoch was finally arrested, at age sixteen. None had casualties, but for the course of six months, New Rome was turned upside down by the son of Liber.

Awaiting his trial, Murdoch suffered in prison - the true fear of a son of Freedom. A couple of days before he was to face the jury, however, someone unlocked his cell, and anxious to be free, Murdoch ran. It was only when the prison alarms were blaring and the tower of fire was burning in the distance that he knew he’d made a grave mistake. Years to come, people would say that there hadn’t been a fire like that since the likes of Nero roamed Italy. The body count had been of twelve - five of them demigods. Realizing he had been caught in the setup, Murdoch ran to an old friend for help, and managed to flee the city. It was with a heavy heart, hiding in the shadow of New Rome’s gates that he realized he could never come back - that whoever was responsible for that fire counted on him taking the fall.

But never is a long time.

Suddenly, with the entire world at his feet, he wished for the safety of Rome instead of freedom. But it was too late for that - Murdoch left with nothing but his smoked clothes, and learned to say goodbye to everything he knew that night: his grandparents, who deserved better; his little brother, who still had so much to learn; his cousins, his friends; and his mother, who would finally see him, but not in the way he wanted.

A life in the outside world, however, is not easy on a lonely demigod.

For nearly ten years, Murdoch survived on his own - sleeping in park benches or under cardboard boxes, stealing this or that, and making himself familiar with needles. Sometimes, he’d almost believe New Rome had been nothing but a dream - a drunk man’s delirium, some madness boiling inside his veins. But then, the monsters would come, and Murdoch would remember that it had to be real: hallucinations don’t draw real blood. Over the years, as his smell got stronger, the monsters would become relentless, following him wherever he went, so he never stayed anywhere for long. Friends with whores and addicts, gamblers and criminals, he found a captive audience - and that’s when the son of Liber felt more liberated, standing on a soapbox at the park, delivering his monologues to an eager crowd, hungry for change.

Some of them, eager to believe, started following him around the country. But there was only so much Murdoch could do for them. And when the monsters came, no one was safe. Finally, tired of running in a life that got increasingly dangerous every year, the prodigal son decided to return to New Rome, and face whatever sentence was waiting for him. He’d seen too much, lost too much, and his weary heart was calling him back home.

There were too many monsters outside, but Murdoch found the worst of them wore human skin.

Para Sample:

[Feel free to post the para sample too, if y'all want!]

There was something intoxicating about fire.

To watch the dark smoke spiral up the air and the flames grow, licking the doric columns of the Senate hungrily, filled him with pleasure. It was something as old as time itself, as if millennia of insatisfaction roared in his chest - the echoes of plebeians rising against patricians in the first Republic of Rome, the cheer and anger spreading across the crowd in ancient festivities of wine and sex. But beyond that, beyond the murmurs of time running in his blood, like an old, familiar song, there was the burning feeling or power.

You hardly ever hear it, but when a fire this big roars, lighting up the night, it sounds like a deafening round of applause.

Murdoch took a moment to appreciate his masterpiece - took a lungful of air, coughing a little, as if to save that taste, etch it deeply in his mind to revisit in the months to come. Before he was even done, he already knew it would be just the first of many - the prologue in his statement on the comings and goings of Roman politics and its shortcomings. There was something rotten in the long line of perfectly aligned soldiers, their feet rumbling in unison in the battlefield like thunder. That order in which the Republic was built was but a lie. Under the military-oriented culture of their people, there was brewing chaos running in their veins: the ichor of gods, their malice and their greatness. That night, alight with euphoria, Murdoch could see it all: all they could be, all they were meant to have. They were godly children, not sheep - and they could do so much better than the old politics upon which New Rome had been built. It was an anachronic, crippled monstrosity, stuck in time like a silly pantomime of real power: Mr. Punch and Judy, wearing paper crowns, calling themselves good.

No; they were meant to be better.

“What are you smiling like that for?”, one of his cousins asked the next day, as they shared a smoke by the fountain. “Just life, Patsy,” Murdoch replied, with a mischievous smile his cousin had long learned to fear: “Life’s funny.” Patsy shook his head, taking a long drag of his cigarette before passing it along. “Sometimes I think you find this fire business amusing, Murdo. Don’t let ‘em catch you with that grin on your face. Not when they’re still mad at you over the Cohort thing - I mean, did you have to leave like that?” Patsy asked him vaguely, red head too full of girls and glory to notice the way Murdoch looked at the ashes the wind had brought, catching them in his hand like black snowflakes. “I guess,” the son of Liber replied. “I just know I’m meant for something else, Patsy. Something different. I’ll leave the fighting to you big men and your swords, trying to compensate for something–”

Their laughter bounced off the stone and marble, unrestrained and high, still stumbling over their first footsteps into manhood.

Four months later, one last fire took Patsy’s life.

Over the next ten years, people would still ask themselves why Murdoch did it, as if Rome hadn’t been built upon fratricide and murder: an empire of betrayal. Sleeping on a bench under the starry night, wondering about centuries of tragedies, Murdo never got to mourn his cousin.

They were meant to be so much better - and still, they made the same old mistakes.

[spine-buster]

Chapter 7 - The Beginning and the End of Everything (Finn Balor)

Fergal only thought about how Gemma would get to his flat once he heard her knock at the door.  Like it had been doing a lot recently, his mind went on overdrive when he knew he would be near her or with her in some capacity.  He didn’t know why.  Despite their kind of heart-to-heart earlier in the week at the coffee shop, he still couldn’t help but watch what he said around her most of the time.  He liked to think that she wouldn’t blow up on him now – now that she knew he was on her side and ready to listen to her, support her.  But like most things concerning Gemma, he wasn’t so sure.  He could never say he was 100% positive she would or would not do something.

She was about ten minutes late from the agreed upon time, but he wasn’t mad since he was an idiot and didn’t offer to pick her up.  Her Uber was probably late.  Hell, she probably got into a fight with the driver because he had tried to help her and she kept refusing.  

When he finally opened the door he was greeted with Gemma and her crutch.  There was no attempt to dress up on her part – she was wearing a pair of workout tights, a light oversized sweater, and a dark denim jacket.  Not that he thought she would – this wasn’t a date, after all.  He smiled at her and let her wobble into the apartment.    “How are you?” he asked politely, taking her jean jacket and hanging it on his coat rack.  He noticed a small red maple leaf patch sewn underneath the collar, the number 23 in black in the centre of the leaf.  

“I’ve been okay,” she said softly, shrugging her shoulders.  “I’ve had better days.  You know how it is.”

Fergal was able to get a good look at her, now that he had hung up her coat, and noticed that her eyes were red.  Her face wasn’t wet, but her eyes were definitely red; rubbed aggressively by the back of her hand to rid the evidence of her tears, he thought.   It was obvious she was lying, at least somewhat.  “Were you crying?”

She nodded her head.  He hoped she’d explain why without him having to ask, but of course, she stayed silent.  He should have known better than to think she’d explain something without persistence on his part.  “Why?” he asked.  

Gemma shrugged her shoulders again.  Fergal was beginning to think it was her go-to answer for everything.  “Cause I’m an wreck who can’t keep her emotions in check?” she asked rhetorically, attempting a joke.  Fergal clearly didn’t find it funny, not laughing at all and not picking up on her sarcasm.  She sighed, knowing she’d have to explain.  “I’ve been crying a lot since I got injured.  My emotions have been an epic shit-storm.”

Fergal nodded his head, trying to understand.  “Yeah, me too.”

“Not as bad as mine, I bet,” she said, her eyes darting around the room.  “You have a nice place.”

“Thanks,” he said politely, absentmindedly.  He was still stuck on the crying part.  He didn’t appreciate her trying to change the subject, especially when he was trying to talk to her.  “Seriously, are you sure nothing else is wrong?”

“Positive,” she said, a lot more convincingly this time.  He gave her a look, and she noticed.  “Honest to God, Fergal.  My emotions are just all over the place.  Like I said at the coffee shop…I just want to be playing hockey.  I hate that I’m not right now.”

“You will be, eventually.  Just like I’ll be wrestling again,” he tried to offer some words of encouragement.  

“Yeah, well…” she shrugged her shoulders again.  It was obvious she didn’t believe him and was brushing him off.  “What are we having for dinner?”

It was obvious to him that she didn’t want to talk about it; that she had tried to cover up the fact that she was crying in the first place before she got to his apartment.  Nevermind the Uber theory from earlier.  “There’s this place that does amazing gourmet thin-crust pizza,” he said, digressing to the fact that she didn’t want to discuss why she was crying anymore.  He knew if they were going to have any semblance of a good night he should stop trying to bring it up.  “You in?”

“Damn right I am.”

Once the pizzas were ordered, Fergal invited her to sit on his couch while he prepared drinks for them; he swayed her out of a boring request of water and convinced her to have a bottle of a craft Irish cider his parents literally smuggled in through their suitcases when they were in town for SummerSlam.  Upon taking a sip and announcing she really liked it, Fergal smiled proudly and joined her on the couch, flipping on the TV but turning down the volume, just so it could be background noise.  

They settled into casual conversation, mostly about their families.  Fergal told Gemma about his brothers and sisters, how he was the second oldest, and about his new sisters-in-laws and brother-in-law he considered family now, too.  He spoke glowingly about his little nieces and nephew, how Eoin’s daughter looked exactly like him, and how his parents were enjoying their new role as grandparents.  

Gemma was surprisingly more open than usual, and he enjoyed her this way.  When she spoke of her family, a constant smile was tugging on her lips.  She spoke of her Arab mom, Nabilah, from Lebanon, and her dad, James, a Canadian now for generations but whose family originally came from Ireland.  She had no siblings to speak of but she spoke about a family trip to Ireland when she was a preteen to visit her Dad’s extended family.  She also spoke at length about Jane, her best friend.  Jane, who had a path quite similar to hers – young female hockey player, scouted at a young age, made a name for herself independently with her skill, without the help of shady ‘agents’, and definitely without the help of hockey reporters who only wanted to focus on the boys.  The fact that they had both made it onto Team Canada was their dream come true; the result of years of hard work, playing just like the boys – hell, even fucking better than the boys.  

Fergal was having a great time, and he hoped at the end of the night he could say the same for Gemma.  When the pizza came, they exchanged one slice each before digging in, focusing their attention to the TV, a re-run of a network sitcom keeping them entertained.   During commercials, they kept their conversation going, funny stories about their families making them laugh.  Fergal told Gemma about the time his little brother hit him in the forehead with a golf club, causing a permanent scar; Gemma told Fergal about how she was once responsible for her father’s black eye = they were practicing slap shots and he was the goalie, of course.  The next day, he had a slew of meetings at work and it was quite the talk around the office.

The only real hiccup in their conversation was when Fergal offered Gemma another beer.  Instead of accepting another one, she shook her head vigorously.  “I really should just stick with water,” she waved him off.

“Come on, live a little,” he joked.

“Nah, I can’t.  Besides the fact that too much alcohol might mess with any painkillers I might need to take, beer won’t do my body well,” Gemma said.

“Oh come on, Gemma,” Fergal laughed, thinking she was joking.  

“I’m being serious!” she said, a little more harshly than Fergal anticipated.  “Not everybody can have Adonis abs like you do.”

Fergal cocked his eyebrow.  “You mean the abs I kill myself in CrossFit for,” he offered.

“I mean the abs I don’t have and won’t have for at least a year since I can’t work out like I usually do,” she clarified.  “Seriously, I can’t slack too much, especially since I need to get back into even better shape than I was in before when I starts to play hockey again.”

Like most conversations he had with her, he digressed and gave in.  There was no use fighting with her.  She was set in her ways, and in her beliefs, and, well, who was he to make her deviate from them?  “Alright, fine…you have a point,” Fergal smiled slightly.  “I wouldn’t want my abs disappearing on me after the shit I put myself through just to get them.” 

“See,” Gemma nodded slightly, “you’re on the dark side now.”

“Yeah, but I’m not gonna regret eating that pizza.”

Gemma snorted.  “Yeah, me neither.”

When the night winded down and Fergal could tell Gemma was tired from the day and wanted to go home, he offered to drive her back to her place, which she accepted.  They hopped into his car and he drove through the streets slowly.  

“I’m going to show up to the NXT tapings in about two weeks,” he said as his foot barely touched the gas pedal.  He noticed Gemma look over at him.  “NXT is like the wrestling developmental system – well, at least in the WWE, in Japan they have these things called dojos where you train --”

“I know what a dojo is,” Gemma interrupted him.

“Right, of course you do,” Fergal said, shaking his head at himself for being such an idiot.  “Anyway, I’m going there in about two weeks, because they’re going to be taping NXT shows.  Do you want to come with me to see it?”

He could tell Gemma was taken aback by the proposition, though she tried to hide it.  She ceased looking at him and began to look out the window, like she always seemed to do in times where she was unsure, or just didn’t want to talk.  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said, her voice soft again, like when she first got to his apartment and had been crying.

“Why not?”

“I don’t…I just don’t feel like being around athletes right now,” she revealed. “You’re hanging out with me,” Fergal challenged.

She snapped her head towards him, her eyebrows furrowed.  “You’re not wrestling every time I see you,” she countered.  “You’re injured just like I am.”

“What’s the difference?”

She sighed, crossing her arms across her chest.  “I don’t get to see how great of an athlete you are while I sit on my ass literally incapable of doing anything,” she grumbled, looking out the window again.  “I appreciate the offer but I don’t want to go.”

“Well, alright,” Fergal gave in, knowing he hit another sore spot with her.  “Just thought I’d ask is all.”

Despite his slowed pace, he reached her apartment quickly, pulling up at the curb like he usually did when he picked her up and dropped her off.  She hadn’t said another word to him since she told him she didn’t want to go to NXT with her.  He knew she was upset, and he had only himself to blame.  He put his car in park and shifted so that his body was facing hers a bit more than usual.   He noticed that she wasn’t looking out the window; instead she was just looking straight in front of her, obviously contemplating something in her head.  “You alright?” he asked.  He felt like that was all he ever asked her.

She looked over at him.  “Why do you want to hang out with me?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…like…it’s obvious I’m not easy to deal with right now.  I’m a mess, I cry about 75% of the day…I’m a hormonal and miserable bitch,” she said.

“So?”

“So?  You invite me over for dinner, you want me to go to NXT with you.  Why do you want to hang out with me?” she repeated her original question.

Fergal shrugged his shoulders.  He wasn’t exactly sure, either.  She was hormonal, she was miserable.  But there was something more to her, and he knew it was there because he saw it in that video of her Golden Goal.  It sounded stupid, but it revealed a lot to him – a lot she didn’t know.  A lot that he couldn’t see in her now, but he knew he would see in her in the future.   But how could he say all of that out loud?  There was no way.  So he resorted to shrugging his shoulders and stating what he wanted to say in its simplest terms.  “Because I like you.”

Gemma looked at him like he had five heads.  “You like me?”

“Well, yeah,” he said.  She kept giving him the same look and that made him know he needed to clarify his comments.  “I mean I don’t write Mrs. Fitzgerald-Devitt on notebooks or anything but despite your mood swings, I like you and I like being around you.  You’re only miserable because you’re not doing what you love right now.”

Gemma couldn’t believe what she was hearing.  Somebody liking her, wanting to be her friend at the absolute lowest part of her life was something she didn’t think was possible.  She wasn’t sure what to say.  “Uh…thanks.”

Fergal nodded his head in acknowledgement.  “So if you don’t want to come to NXT with me, do you at least want to get dinner again?  Maybe sometime next week?”

He felt like he was waiting a lifetime for her response.  In Gemma’s defense, she was still trying to wrap her head around the fact that Fergal enjoyed her company.  He tried to control the smile threatening to take over his face when she finally answered with “Yeah…okay.”

[travelonlinetips-blog]

New Post has been published on https://travelonlinetips.com/australia-france-bulgaria-berlin-and-italy-lonely-planets-travel-blog/

Australia, France, Bulgaria, Berlin and Italy – Lonely Planet's travel blog

Cliff astride his noble steed Turbo on Rainbow Beach, Queensland © Clifton Wilkinson

At Lonely Planet we’re simply obsessed with travel; rarely a week goes by when someone hasn’t just got back from an epic adventure. To celebrate our infatuation with exploration, each month Lonely Planet staff will be sharing some of their recent travel stories from the road. Read on for horseback beach escapes, birthday celebrations in Berlin and more…

Horse riding along Rainbow Beach, Queensland

Turbo was having none of it. Try as I might, I couldn’t get my otherwise compliant horse to take the two of us into the ocean as we ambled along the magnificent Rainbow Beach in Queensland. It’s not like I wasn’t having an amazing time already. It would be difficult not to on what is regularly named as one of the world’s most beautiful beaches; a stretch of golden sand that goes on for miles, bordered on one side by dunes and forest, and on the other by the glistening Pacific.

But I’d always wanted to ride a horse on a beach, galloping through the waves, man and horse and the elements combining in an exhilarating, once-in-a-lifetime experience. Turbo clearly had not got the memo, so I had to make do with a gentle stroll along the sand, every now and again trying, unsuccessfully, to coax my clearly ironically named steed to head just a little closer to the water, but still revelling, grin spread across my face, in the stunning surroundings.

Clifton Wilkinson, Destination Editor for Great Britain, Ireland and Iceland. Follow his tweets @Cliff_Wilkinson.

Traffic on Ile de Re may include the odd donkey © Jessica Ryan

Cycling around idyllic Île de Ré, France

Last September I spent five glorious days in Île de Ré, near La Rochelle on the west coast of France. We stayed in an area called Le-Bois-Plage-en-Ré, a 15-minute cycle from the island’s main hub, Saint-Martin, a quaint, upmarket port town. Cycling wouldn’t normally be my preferred method of transport, but you really need a bike to experience what makes this place special. And with an elaborate network of flat, smooth cycle paths that take you past fields of donkeys, vineyards, oyster farms, beaches and salt flats, it was a pretty dreamy way to get around.

By day, we criss-crossed the island en vélo, stopping for an ice cream at the famous La Martinière in Saint-Martin. Its winding streets are lined with charming white houses, decorated with shuttered windows and climbing plants. You can stop for a dip in the sea when it gets too hot, and have lunch at the many beach restaurants before exploring the rest of the island. By night, dine at La Cible; or if you’re on a tighter budget, pick up a takeaway pizza and beers from one of the roadside vendors, pedal onto the beach and watch the sun set.

Jessica Ryan, Product Editor. Follow her on Instagram @jessimica_ryan.

Tas taking in the Bulgarian mountains © Tasmin Waby

Soaking tired muscles in Bulgaria’s hot springs

I love mountains and I love thermal hot springs (known as banya in Bulgaria), so I was pretty happy to find both just an hour from the country’s capital, Sofia. After a full day walking around Seven Rila Lakes in Bulgaria’s Rila Mountains, photographing glacial lakes, icy waterfalls and wild alpine flowers, I convinced my travel buddies we should check out the town we had come through the night before. Surely Dolna Banya has a banya, right!?

We rolled up to a public hot springs complex in the early evening, and despite having zero Bulgarian vocabulary at our disposal, the immensely patient staff hired us towels, a locker and pointed out where the hot pools were, as well as the steam room, sauna, and snow fountain – for cooling back down. We relaxed our weary bodies after a long day hiking, watching the sun set and the thermal steam waft through the crisp mountain air while we floated around various indoor and outdoor pools, soaking ourselves in the therapeutic waters.

Tasmin Waby, Destination Editor for Australia and the Pacific. Follow her tweets @TravellingTaz.

Jen, mama and stepdad David enjoying a bevvy in Gendarmenmarkt © Jennifer Carey

Ladies about town in Berlin, Germany

Berlin is famous for its wonderful nightlife, but I experienced the city in a brand new light when I brought my mum on her first trip to Germany. Bernadette had a big birthday in November (60 and sensational), and I wanted to treat her after a tough year. Is there anything better than day drinking in Christmas markets and buying 400 tree decorations? The answer is no.

Mama only deserves the best and that was the Regent Berlin. It’s a hotel I’ve lustfully eyed from afar, but didn’t feel sufficiently fancy or rich enough to stay in. Turns out November Jennifer is both rich (credit card) and fancy (discount designer bag) enough to shimmy through its marble entrance. The staff were a joy and showered my mum with champagne and cake to celebrate her birthday. In fact half of Berlin gave her free cake for the occasion – we basically told everyone we met.

We hit up the joyously festive market in Gendarmenmarkt, fangirled the Berlin Symphony Orchestra in the Konzerthaus, and generally ate and drank our way around the city in grand style. Berlin is a great option for intergenerational travel: loads of chilled bars and restaurants, and all the major sights are in an easily navigable area. Next time we’re hitting up Berghain – the city’s most exclusive nightclub!

Jennifer Carey, Managing Destination Editor. Follow her tweets @JenniferCarey01.

Peter looking the part in his 1955 AC Ace © Peter Grunert

Driving a classic car through Lombardy, Italy

As a massive fan of the nostalgic character and many peculiarities of classic cars, the idea of taking one on a tour through Italy had long sat at the peak of my bucket list. And so, with a little help from a friend of a friend of a friend, I found myself clambering behind the timber-rimmed steering wheel of a beautiful old British convertible, a 1955 AC Ace, in Brescia.

We chugged out at dawn from the dusty courtyard of the Mille Miglia Museum. The Mille Miglia was once known as the world’s most dangerous road race, originally running from 1927-57 on a 1000-mile loop from Brescia to Rome and back. My co-driver Paolo and I were taking the AC on an event called the Coppa Franco Mazzotti, which retraces the first 200 miles of the Mille Miglia through Lombardy.

Over the next couple of days we wound between graffiti-spattered suburbs and sprawling medieval fortresses; through the vineyards of the little-visited Franciacorta region and selfie-stick-wielding hordes in the spa town of Sirmione by Lake Garda. We also soaked up some of the happiest of rural Italian clichés: roving packs of nuns; farmers harvesting olives; and grandparents with their grandkids, leaning from terracotta-coloured roadside houses – all cheering our cartoonish convoy as we came barrelling on through.

Peter Grunert, Group Editor, Magazines. Follow his tweets @peter_grunert.

Peter Grunert travelled with support from Scuderia Classiche. Lonely Planet contributors do not accept freebies in exchange for positive coverage.

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[stanleyofbothsides]

🙇: Who is the oldest ancestor your muse's family can trace back to in History? If they cannot trace back that far - is your muse interested in learning of their roots?

{{ This is one of my favourite things to talk about, so thank you!!

SO, most noble families would be keen to share their ancient pedigree, since it was a fundamental demonstration of their ancient right to advise the king and act as his deputies in the localities. (Also, a general rule in the Middle Ages is that the older something is, the more legitimacy it has.) If they’d wanted to, the Stanleys could trace their ancestry back to the Audley family just after the Domesday Book.

But the Stanleys weren’t a noble family. They didn’t become barons until 1456, and the North West hadn’t really had a powerful noble family in the region before. They were essentially starting from scratch. Their pedigree was also decidedly dodgy: Thomas Stanley’s great-grandfather (John Stanley I) started out as a younger son of the Master-Forester of the Wirral and a convicted murderer and outlaw. Yet he somehow managed to work his way up through heavy-handed lordship in Ireland (courtesy of Robert de Vere under Richard II) and fighting in France. By the time he died, he was King of the Isle of Man and a Knight of the Garter, with a fistful of royal offices. (By most accounts, John was a bit of a thug, but that’s a story for another time.)

Obviously, that wasn’t what they wanted to promote. It’s interesting that the badge the Stanleys chose to adopt (the eagle and child) was a badge of their rather more prestigious Lathom in-laws, who were at least descended from the nobility, and they made Lathom in Lancashire their family seat rather than their original Stanley patrimony in Cheshire. In his will, Thomas Stanley also ensured that effigies were made of himself, his wives, his parents, and his grandparents to go in Burscough Priory… which was founded by the Lathoms. It was a clear sign that his family’s history in the Wirral didn’t really matter.

They also set great store by their service to the Lancastrians, and a lot of their identity came from their offices in the Duchy of Lancaster rather than their old holdings in Cheshire. (Even the earldom of Derby was a Lancastrian title.)

For the purposes of displaying their family heritage, there was little to gain from going back further than John I, particularly on the paternal side, since it was a reminder that the Stanleys were essentially self-made. It all flies in the face of the ‘older equals better’ maxim that a lot of the English nobility adhered to. }}

[passionate-baker]

Winter Weekend in Westport

Friends, I have to be honest with you: Westport was never one of the places on my “to-go list”. Why would I want to go to a small town tucked away in the back arse of nowhere? A trip to Westport would have meant leaving Dublin behind to experience that true Irish-country-feel that tourists seem to revel in, & to be honest, the smell of cow poop that comes to mind when I think of previous country visits doesn’t do all that much for me. Then Boyfriend came along. He spoke of the wonders of the Wild West & insisted time and time again that we visit Westport together, because apparently I would love it. I was skeptical, but when Boyfriend uses his puppy dog eyes on me I am rendered entirely powerless (which he 100% uses to his advantage). 

We set out for Westport in January 2016, and returned again in December 2016. 2019 edit: since then, we have visited a further two times - Boyfriend always knows best.

It takes just over three hours to drive from Dublin to Westport, & the journey is filled with the most gorgeous landscape views. With the ‘Into The Wild’ soundtrack playing on full volume, we drove from one side of the country to the other & eventually touched down in Co. Mayo. I had never been to Mayo before, but ever since our first visit to Westport, I’ve been hooked. There’s just something about the place that hits you in the face & sticks in your mind long after your visit has ended - a certain type of magic that you can’t really put your finger on. You can taste it in the air, see it in all of the quaint little shopfronts, & feel it when you venture into your first Westport pub for a local Mescan beer.

STAY 

The Wyatt Hotel // a charming hotel filled with character. Perfect location, excellent rooms, extremely friendly & helpful staff, not one single thing we could fault it on. Added bonus: the bar in the hotel does an outstanding club sandwich, which is not a statement we would make lightly. 

The Mill Times Hotel // a very central hotel. Located just off the main street, this is a standard, cheap hotel. The room was comfortable & the breakfasts in the morning were hearty and filling.  

EAT

An Port Mor // an absolute must. An adorable, quaint little restaurant from the outside, a real deal seriously great restaurant on the inside. The food is outstanding, perhaps the best we’ve had in all of Ireland. Every single meal we’ve had there - yes, there have been a few - has left us in awe, wanting to come back again the very next night. The service is impeccable. A little pricier than most places in Westport, but after one bite of your roasted pig cheek you’ll forget all about that, we promise. 

The Pantry & Corkscrew // the sheer volume of glowing reviews for this place on Trip Advisor piqued our interest so much that we had to try it out. The whole truth: I have never been so pleasantly surprised in my whole life! We loved it so much we cancelled one of our bookings & ate here two nights in a row. Pro tip: get the fried chicken - mouthwatering, moist, tender, crispy & delicious! 

Cronin’s Sheebeen // a 40-minute trek out of Westport town, the Sheebeen is the perfect place to refuel. I don’t know about where you live, but in Dublin when you eat in a pub it’s always the same dried out food that you always regret eating. Cronin’s Sheebeen is so far away from that, the food is always delicious. The goat’s cheese starter is a winner - it comes baked in angel hair pastry & it is the most delicious & delicate thing ever. Added bonus: they do a ‘smoked bacon mashed potato’ that tastes exactly like Bacon Fries. Trust. 

DRINK

Matt Molloy’s // this is one of those places in Westport that everyone goes to - if you say you’re going to a pub, people assume you mean Matt Molloy’s & that’s just the way it is. If you push through to the back room, you might get lucky & secure a seat beside the fire where you can watch the live band play every night. Alternatively, if you find yourself seated at the bar there’s a great collection of American police badges pinned up all over the walls from all sorts of random towns & cities. 

McGing’s // definitely our favourite pub in Westport. I mean, have you seen the outside? A grey dull building that is entirely brought to life by the mad bright colours of the pub. Walking in through the doors is like stepping back in time to one of those great pubs your grandparents used to drink in, so full of character & warmth. In the sitting room - yes, there’s a sitting room - there’s a lovely blazing fire to keep warm while you sip away on your Mescan. What more could you ask for?

The Gallery Boutique Wine Bar // a chic little wine bar to nestle into for a glass of wine. When we asked the owner, Tom, what wines he had by the glass he answered us with a question: what would you like? Two glasses of malbec later, we were satisfied customers. 

DO

Marlene’s Chocolate Haven // the only place I have ever ordered a hot chocolate & actually enjoyed it. Basically, the inside of the cup is coated with luscious melted chocolate & piping hot milk is poured into the middle. Two options: stir thoroughly to feel like you’re drinking liquid chocolate or do it my way & scoop all of the melty chocolate out with your spoon & make a right mess. 

Hunt down some Mescan // this one goes without saying. Do it. 

This Must Be The Place // a beautiful new cafe occupying the space where WTR was. The menu is healthy and fresh, filled with original ideas not found anywhere else in Westport. The food is delicious - as is the coffee - so much so that Boyfriend & I stopped in for a speedy lunch before setting off home. Pro tip: get the homemade beans with the feta and the chorizo, it is mouthwatering-ly good. 

Willow Tea Rooms // adorable little tea rooms just beside the clock tower (with an A+ window display also), serving up a huge choice of loose leaf teas & cute little baked goods. I’m a sucker for a cute mince pie & this was definitely the best one I’ve had in my whole life - heated ever so slightly with a healthy (or not so healthy) dollop of softly whipped cream. Perfection. 2019 edit: now closed, but leaving this here for the memories.