#Somerset field

[crow-caller]

My friend has put together a film screening for two horror movies with queer subtext, if you're about the Somerset UK area, it's in Bath July 31st! (I'd highly suggest looking up said films ahead of time if you're unfamiliar)

This is a very narrow casting but I wanted to shout them out, if it's something you're into.

^^ticket link here

[rabbitcruiser]

On March 7, 2002, Congressman John Murtha (PA-12) introduced a bill in  the United States House of Representatives to establish a Flight 93 National Memorial to be developed by a commission, and ultimately administered by the National Park Service.  

[not-xpr-art]

Digital portrait of James Scott, Duke of Monmouth

(05/2023)

Based on a portrait of him from about 1683, with my own spin on it!

Probably most people aren't familiar with the Duke of Monmouth, but living a few miles away from where the infamous battle of Sedgemoor (the last battle fought on English soil btw!) took place means I've known about him for basically my whole life! (there's also a local legend that Queen Victoria pulled the blinds of her carriage down when she was travelling through the area because of how the Somerset people had supported the Duke lol) He was an illegitimate son of Charles II and attempted to overthrow his uncle (James II) by inciting a rebellion across the West Country but was unsuccessful and ended up being executed for treason...

But recently I discovered that there was a rumour that after he was beheaded, they realised they didn't have an official portrait of him, so they stitched his head back on his body and had him 'sit' for a portrait lol

Have to say that this is totally untrue, of course lol (there's several portraits done of him prior to his death), but it's such a bizarre and gruesome detail I couldn't resist including a hint of it in my painting here!

[rob76photography]

The village of Easton, near Wells

[pefruma]

Lavender Field, Somerset, England

[marlowedobbe]

Lavender Field, Somerset, England

[maybeasunflower]

Two points related to "Britain running out of wood":

The Kennet and Avon Canal made a lot of money bringing coal from the Somerset coal fields to London

Britain had to import wood to build ships during Napoleonic Wars. This came from Sweden, who remained officially neutral, but had her lumber-carrying ships attacked by the French and defended by the British.

England should return to Tudor cooking immediately. there should be restaurants where i can get ethnic Redwall cuisine

[cat-in-a-mech-suit]

Transmasculinity Throughout Time: Dr James Barry

Part 2! Here we go. James Barry was the first European doctor to successfully perform a C section where both the mother and child survived, which is cool to me because I was born via C section. He was born in 1789, but lied that he was younger on documents in order to pass - people described him as young looking and soft featured with a boyish voice, but never questioned in his gender. Despite adamantly stating he was a man for his whole adult life and only being revealed as transgender after death, he is still referred to as a “a woman ahead of her time” in the Guardian in 2016 and argued to have only presented as a man to enter the male-dominated medical field. In his wikipedia page, he is only referred to by his last name, not he/him pronouns. This is another example of the transmasculine erasure done by cis feminist historians that I mentioned in my last post in this series. Instead of doing this, cis feminists, here is what you can do: accept and include transmasculine experiences as a part of feminist narratives, not in contradiction to them, and if you can’t do that, at least actually do some research on the women who were practicing medicine at the time, and acknowledge their accomplishments instead of stealing and erasing transmasculine history! To all students of history, and especially anyone who cares about queer/trans history: stop erasing trans men (and all trans and nonbinary people) and explaining us away. Come face to face with our existence. Can you do that?

Alright.

Barry was a British imperial surgeon. When he was 19, he expressed longing to be a soldier, and he later joined the British army. Eeh, I know. His official title quickly ascended to Colonel Medical Inspector. If it wasn’t for his privilege, his gender transgression would likely have not been so easily forgiven and explained away through infantilization and feminist narratives during and after his life. However, he still faced great challenges.

In his profession, he was unlike others because he spent time around and advocated for the most marginalized in society - prisoners, mentally ill, lepers, poor people, and enslaved people. He did this even though it made him vulnerable and eccentric to those around him. His bluntness and need to make change made him extremely challenged and unpopular among his fellow officers, and he survived on his professionalism and bravado alone, enduring an accusation of “conduct unbecoming of the character of an Officer and a Gentleman” for a clash with another surgeon, of which he was acquitted thereafter. He also got into a pistol duel and won against Captain Josias Cloete of the 21st Light Dragoons. Generally, he was described as both rude and unafraid to speak his mind, as well as sometimes overly polite, with a good bedside manner. People were confused by him because he didn’t fit into society, and they constantly speculated on his life and tried to diminish him and the advocacy that he did.

He was first appointed to his position and was able to keep it despite challenges to his authority because of his “close friendship” with the Governor, Lord Charles Somerset (we all know what close friendship means when historians say it). In 1824, he was slandered, put on trial, and investigated when someone said that they “detected Lord Charles buggering Dr Barry.” James Barry is an important historical example of transhomophobia. Unlike what TEHMs and their ilk believe, queer trans men in fact have been experiencing homophobia all this time. James Barry experienced the same homophobia as a cis gay man would at the time, with the additional pressure of being a trans man who had to pass as a cis man to live as himself: transhomophobia. As a queer trans man, thinking about what he must have gone through makes my stomach hurt.

In 1857, he was appointed to be the Inspector of Hospitals in Canada, and he made significant improvements to sanitation and care for prisoners and lepers during his short time in that position. He was forcibly resigned against his will after only two years, because of his supposed poor health.

Before he died of dysentery in 1865, he asked for his person to not be examined at all. His wishes were disobeyed. He was outed as trans and subsequently, his life was either erased or stolen from him and written as that of a woman. To avoid a scandal, all army records of him were locked for 100 years, until in 1958, a biography of him was written by a cis woman historian, who wrote about him as a woman pretending to be a man and erased his transness. Barry’s own doctor said after his death that “it was none of my business whether Dr. Barry was a male or a female” and suggested that he might have been intersex.

Interestingly, he was also known for an incident in which he scolded Florence Nightingale for poor sanitary practices, which she complained about after he died, saying he was “the most hardened creature I had ever met.”

[theroyalsandi]

British Royal Family -  The Duchess Of Edinburgh (L) attends the Field to Food Learning Day at the Bath and West Show Ground in Shepton Mallet during her visit to Somerset in Somerset, United Kingdom. (Photo by Chris Jackson) | April 17, 2024

[turnertable]

I’m suffering the post-concert blues from a festival I didn’t even physically attend, only through a TV (Glastonbury of course!) and was wondering if I could put in a request for just some general fluff between Alex and the reader after his show with the monkeys at glasto this year? Maybe reader being just extremely proud and some tired but cute as fuck fluffiness. I’m not great with actually putting my ideas into words and describing them, sorry! Hope you understand what I’m on about <3

written by meee, first fic. sorry if it's shit

warnings: none, just silly sick Alex fluff

word count: 2k

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Sick Day at Glastonbury

(Alex Turner x Reader) (the car era !)

(gif credit to @alexturner )

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The final chords of R U Mine? buzzed across the field of Worthy Farm, Somerset and Alex finally breathed out after all the excitement of the Glastonbury Festival. "Third time's a charm." Alex said under his breath as he did his bows and blew the kisses like usual, turning to his bandmates to leave the stage with a smile. His voice was on the brink of collapse but the attention was enough to make him want to do it all over again.

At the side of the stage, stood her. His pride and joy, the one person he needed to prove himself worthy to still, to impress. Even with the mirrorball right there, somehow she glowed brighter. Y/N could hardly contain her excitement as she cheered him on at this final hurrah, like she hadn't been screaming his name after every song as a measure of her pride in the band. The anticipation of seeing each other again was magnetic and it only took a few steps.

As the Monkeys left the stage, Y/N offered a soft smile and congratulations to Jamie, Matt and Nick, her voice hoarse from the screaming which the boys could understand and offered her hugs before running off to their girls desperately. Y/N loved Alex to the ends of the earth but dating a lead singer did mean you were left at the side of the stage the longest because he was always the one to cue the lights to go down, this was almost a game to see how long he'd take at each gig she attended. Eventually, Alex got off the stage and smiled so wide at the sight of her, running over and picking her up excitedly.

"Babeh!" He chuckled a bit at his excitement as she clung to him. "We did it!" His voice was getting hoarse since he was supposed to be on vocal rest. Y/N pulled him for a kiss to shut him up which Alex of course didn't mind, it was the only polite way to keep him quiet.

She got down and looked at him like he was a god, noticing his messy hair after and giggling. "Al, you look like a lion" She tried to tame it slightly but it was too far gone plus he looked too cute to try to amend perfection. He smiled back like she was an angel before him and shrugged.

"You seem t' like it tho.." Alex hummed as he wrapped an arm around her waist, attempting to lead her backstage so they could both rest after all the raucous. She smiled and looked down, nodding, "perhaps…" as she followed Alex back to the dressing room, letting him rub her side as the crowd became quieter and quieter.

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Alex opened the door and held it for Y/N, "Ladies first, me love." Y/N slightly swooned at his gentlemanly moves. Even if she was used to his actions, the looks and gravitas of Alex Turner would forever be a shock of her system. She waltzed in and essentially fell onto the sofa from the exhaustion of jumping around for 2 hours, making Alex chuckle softly at the sight.

"You ok, babeh?" He sat on the arm of the chair, coughing as his voice squeaks due to the laryngitis he was facing; frankly the fact he even went out on stage was a feat for only the best. Y/N offered him a sympathetic look and a nod, mumbling out a small "tired." with a whine.

As they shared a moment of mutual sympathy, Alex attempted to pull Y/N to sit up gently so she could lay in his lap from the sofa as he rested his voice, just so she knew that he was there for her, even if he couldn't say it. Y/N complied and Alex's hand found it's way into her hair to softly stroke it as he looked down at her with awe and love. She was his, the muse in every word he wrote, the light of his life. He just hoped she knew it.

Y/N shut her eyes and hummed to herself to fill the silence of where Alex's words would usually occupy, much to his joy. Everything felt perfect in this moment. If the festival hadn't felt like a milestone, this comedown was a haven well deserved. Alex's gaze never left her face, studying it like it was the first time he'd ever seen it: tender touches traced her jaw and cheek. This made Y/N giggle slightly, remaining serene amazingly.

"Alexander, that tickles." One of her eyes opened up for a second to see his reaction with a sweet smile. What voice Alex had left was a breathy, squeaky mess so to avoid being compared to his younger self, he offered a cheeky shrug and a poke on the cheek. Y/N noticed and thought to herself: "Do you want some tea?" She tried to sit up as she voiced her concern for him.

This wasn't just an offer of a beverage and the pair of them knew that: Y/N wanted to look after a very sickly Alex. Being the man of the relationship, he had been handling laryngitis "well" or in actuality, he hadn't been able to have a smoke for a week and lay on the tour bus bunk for hours at a time. However this was not a usual Alex is ill situation, it was Glastonbury and a continuing tour after it: there was little time for reluctance nor resistance to being looked after for Alex. He nodded and let her go to the kettle as he sat on the sofa silently, putting his feet up which Y/N smiled at softly as she turned back to look at him, exchanging a look of "it'll be ok baby".

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On the table that housed the kettle, also sat the record player which Alex always requested on the rider: a man who loved his profession didn't cover it. If Alex wasn't performing, the 8 track or gramophone filled the fleeting seconds until the next time he was on stage. Naturally Y/N got the record from before the show back on, much to Alex's enjoyment as he hummed out as if to say "good job" and leaned his head back. Y/N leaned against the table as the kettle boiled, watching her boyfriend relax and grinning to herself at the sight of Alex Turner relaxing for once in his busy life.

"You good?" Y/N joked, checking he was alright since this was odd for her to see. Alex offered her a thumbs up and a stupid smile, making Y/N actually laugh and narrow her eyes at his need to one-up her joke. Alex's wide smile and her genuine chuckle was rudely interrupted by the click of the kettle going off, leading them to both jump at it which only prompted another soft laugh and gaze between them. Y/N turned back to the table to make their tea, making sure to do it perfectly for Alex, he only deserves the best.

"Now I know it's not beer or the best rolled, organic cigarette but… I think I make a good cuppa." Y/N said all cutely as she set the drink down on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Alex smiled softly and sat up, gazing at her with such a grateful look. No words were needed for Y/N to understand how much Alex loved her and appreciated this. She scurried off to get her tea and came to sit with him, leaning on his shoulder to stay close to him and holding her cup in her hands to stay warm.

"I don't know if you need to hear this because I think the crowd said it for you.." Y/N whispered to him as she continued, "but I'm so fucking proud of you, there's no band that could do that 3 times that well as the monkeys…" Alex immediately turned to her and kissed her temple with need after that reassurance, not being able to thank her vocally. Y/N lit up and sipped her tea before cuddling into him more and sighing. "I'm glad I'm here, to watch you do this…" Y/N just gushed on and on about the band and himself, not quite finding the words specifically but talking like she couldn't ever stop praising him.

Alex's smile felt permanent as far as he was concerned, just the way she made him feel was like a drug and he was so ready to be able to talk properly again so he could tell her that but alas, here he was, non verbal with tea in his hands and a sore throat. "I love ya." Alex squeaked out and blushed slightly, "Sorry luv, it's like we're back int boardwalk, aye?" He continued into the joke to hide the disdain he had for his voice right now.

Y/N smiled brightly and shrugged, "I'd still kiss 20 year old Alex, don't you worry. His voice was cute too…but don't let him out just to talk to me. Vocal rest, Turner." She scolded him slightly but it was all in the name of love and wanting him well again. Alex nodded and smirked at the comment, looking her up and down to be funny, making Y/N tap him softly. "Behave yourself, not like that." Alex was content with that answer and sipped his own drink, listening to the music that filled the room.

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As cups drained and cuddles were exchanged, Alex and Y/N's eyes became heavy with warmth and comfort; "Do we need to go back to the hotel?" Y/N mumbled out, followed by a yawn. Alex hummed in response as he nodded with shut eyes. Stretching and leaving Alex's arms, Y/N giggled slightly, "are we that old now where we won't even enjoy Glastonbury after hours?", causing Alex to crack up a bit. Alex looked at her and shrugged like "yeah and what about it?, the smug persona hadn't left since the last time they were at the festival, just it wasn't to get a girl but in fact, a bed to sleep in with the love of his life.

"Back in a sec." Y/N got up and went to leave to find Steve or anyone from the crew to get the pair of them a ride to the hotel. It was a benefit of dating a rockstar, she got what she wanted with more included but honestly Alex's needs were shared right now. Once the ride was confirmed, she returned to Alex and packed their stuff they desperately needed, anything that the crew wouldn't be able to get them later. Alex came to help and yawned as they waited for the knock on the door to leave. His hand found its way to her waist again, it was his way of keeping her safe within the feeling of fame; plus he knew she liked it. She smiled up at him and rubbed her eyes as the knock came at the door as the cue to go.

They snuck out of the dressing room and out of the back to their security, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible in this massive festival where Alex was already under a lot of pressure. If he was seen ill and half asleep, the NME would have it on the website in an hour. They stayed hidden, heads down and walking fast to that car on the other side of the festival. Luckily, the paps only caught what they couldn't see as the pair stepped into the car and sped off to their hotel.

Alex sighed out and looked over at Y/N who was already looking at him. That knowing gaze was unstoppable at that point. It took a lot to get the rockstar away from the music but for Y/N, the golden boy of Glastonbury Festival would call it a night.

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[endoferasandallthings]

children are being emotionally devastated on the beetroot fields of somerset

[fromthedust]

unknown photographer - Wrecked - 1922

Alfred Eisenstaedt (German/American, 1898-1995) - A man standing in the lumberyard of Seattle Cedar Lumber Manufacturing - 1937

Alice Posluszna (working in Poland) - The Indoctrination - 2019 - www.instagram.com/alicja_posluszna/

Ján Cifra (Czech, 1929-1959) - Sand Dunes, Vietnam - 1956

Richard Nash (UK) – Monument to Ralph of Shrewsbury, Bishop of Bath and Wells (died 1363) - Wells Cathedral, Somerset

Justin Alexander Bartels (working in San Diego) - BOUDOIR-LICIOUS Lingerie - IMPRESSION series - justinalexanderbartels.com

Gérard Uféras (French, b.1970) - Museum d'histoire Naturelle Galerie de Paléontologie - Paris - Octobre 2016

unknown photographer - Helen Moyer with Electric Eel model - The Field Museum of Natural History - Chicago - 1947

unknown photographer - Nan Wood Graham and Dr. Byron McKeeby at the Grant Wood Memorial Exhibition - Gallery at the Cedar Rapids Public Library - September 1942

Jean Dieuzaide (French, 1921-2003) - La Petite Fille au lapin (Little Girl with a Rabbit) - Portugal - 1954

[rabbitcruiser]

On April 16, 2002, Senator Arlen Specter (PA) introduced a version of the “Flight 93 National Memorial Act” in the Senate. 

[brahmsthirdracket]

another little fic from bits of ancient and unfinished google docs - baby lando and max f

2008 

“Hey bug,” Jon doesn’t need to look up from where he’s holding Oli’s kart steady to sense Lando’s presence, “You okay?”

Lando’s quiet for long enough that Jon does look up then, takes in his small, damp figure, the way he’s fiddling with the zip on his jacket.

Jon straightens up.

“You didn’t wanna hang out with those kids?” He can see them through the driving rain on the other side of the car park, roughhousing under one of the other marquees. 

Lando shakes his head, leans his whole body against Jon’s in an unspoken request for comfort. Jon pulls him in for a cuddle.

“Well you can help me then, yeah? Teach me how to be a mechanic?”

He doesn’t let go until he feels a nod against his chest, and Lando blinks up at him with a weak smile.

For all that Lando follows Jon around like a lost puppy in the garage, once he’s pulled his helmet on, it’s all business. Jon’s not sure he’ll ever get used to how fucking good the kid is. 

On the ferry back to Portsmouth Lando trots after Jon out onto the wet, windy deck instead of whacking the buttons on the fruit machines in the lounge with the other kids. 

The deck is practically deserted this time of year, the other passengers taking refuge in cheap pints and chips laced in salt and vinegar. 

They huddle into their raincoats and lean against the railing. Lando’s got the little green frog sporting a striped Breton shirt and beret that had Jon fished out of the bargain bin in the onboard duty free and shoved over the counter with a Snickers and pack of smokes. Lando’s whole face had scrunched up in surprised joy when Jon handed it to him with a Nice work this weekend.

He watches now as Lando gives it a little kiss and tucks it carefully down the front of his raincoat with its froggy face sticking up over the zip. It’s strange, Jon supposes, an adored child of a multimillionaire, in raptures over a cheap toy.

They lean against the railing in companionable silence, content to let the thrum of the ship’s engine and the fine mist of drizzle wash over them.

“Jon?”

“Hmm?”

“Will you be with me forever?”

Jon looks down at him, at his sweet, earnest face, half-hidden by his hood and the frog. His eyes are the same colour as the churning sea and sky.

Jon, shrugs, doesn’t say Until I get a better job than performance coaching nine-year olds. 

“S’long as you need me, bug.”  

“Cool,” says Lando. He turns his face up into the rain and closes his eyes. “We’re gonna win a World Championship then.”

2009 

True to his word, Jon drives down to Glastonbury for the first weekend of the offseason. He sets off while it’s still dark; stops for fuel and bitter, petrol-station coffee that he downs in two, burning gulps somewhere near Dudley, and turns off the M5 just as the sun is coming up over the rolling Somerset hills. 

It’s only been a month or so since he last saw Lando, but it still feels like something’s shifted since Jon started uni. He wonders, again, if he’s out of mind for agreeing to this, agreeing to miss out on Friday nights at the SU and lazy, hungover mornings with bacon sandwiches and embarrassing pictures. The friendships he’s made still feel new, tentative and he knows that none of them understand why he’s missing parties and intramural football to babysit some kid at karting races. 

He doesn’t say that he could work at Spoons and JD and do the night shift at fucking Asda and he still wouldn’t make the money Adam’s offering him to do this. 

He also doesn’t say that it’s not some kid, it’s Lando and he’s going to win a World Championship someday. 

The last few miles through the patchwork green Somerset countryside, the dew still glistening in the patchwork fields and the spires of sleepy villages, somehow feel like coming home. 

The gravel crunches under his wheels as he turns down the wide, poplar-lined driveway. His mum’s Kia feels small and grubby parked next to a Range Rover with brand-new ‘09 plates. He’s half-in, half-out, hastily shovelling the accumulated debris of protein shake bottles, t-shirts and overdue library books onto the backseat, when something small careers into him from behind. 

“Jon!” Lando squeals, vibrating with anticipation and probably sugary cereal. “I missed you!” He’s run out into the driveway barefoot in what must be his little sister’s dressing gown.

“Me too, bug,” Jon says, scooping him up easily. Lando winds his arms around Jon’s neck and keeps up a constant stream of chatter in his ear. 

The kitchen is as warm and noisy as Jon remembers. He sets Lando down onto a countertop, so he can shake hands with his parents. He gives his sisters high-fives and Oli a fist bump; drops down to scratch the elderly retriever behind the ears.

Over tea, toast and scrambled eggs from the family chickens, Adam spreads out a meticulous printed calendar across the table. 

Lando wedges himself in between them, puts his elbow in the butter dish and beams at Jon. 

“You’re gonna be here like, every weekend. How cool is that?”

They talk logistics for most of the morning: new season regulations, upgrades, race calendars and training schedules. Jon’s not sure if he feels sorry for Lando and Oli or envious. It’s not much of a childhood, but perhaps if he’d spent more time doing interval training as a 12 year old, and less time watching Top Gear reruns and eating Monster Munch, he’d be doing something better with his life.

They don’t seem any the worse for it. They show Jon the new Scalextric set up in their playroom and Oli roundly thrashes him at Guitar Hero. 

Lando for his part, provides a running stream of helpful commentary from the arm of the sofa: “You’re like, okay, Jon, well actually you’re kind of slow but you’re trying so hard!”, until Jon decides that Adam is probably paying him for more than Wii golf and drags them both up onto the hills for a bike ride. 

2010

RFM brings a gruelling European schedule, a truly obscene technical and logistical setup and the stocky, baby-faced son of two stockbrokers who’d apparently dominated the Asian circuits. Max is the same age as Lando, curly-haired and just as weird.  

Max is also very good. 

Jon watches them make shy eyes at each other from across the garage for the best part of a morning before he loses patience. 

“Go and play with him,” he tells Lando, who’s making a nuisance of himself under Jon’s feet, and sends him off in Max’s direction with a gentle shove and a football he has no idea what to do with. 

Max turns out to be steady and gentle foil to Lando’s jittery hyperactivity, and by the time they arrive at Genk for the first race of the season, they’ve sporting Lando Norris friendship stickers on their helmets and Jon has to make actual conversation with adults. 

Inseparable as they are, it’s easier than not for Jon to take Max under his wing as well: to get them racing up and down the tiny hotel pools and endless corridors, to wrangle them under a single big umbrella during rain delays, to tuck them into bed together with Wallace and Gromit on Max’s portable DVD player.

“Night, half pints,” Jon murmurs when he comes in to turn off the light. They’re already fast asleep, little hands entwined on top of the covers.

[scotianostra]

September 10th 1547 saw the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh.

Fought along the Firth of Forth near Musselburgh, southeast of Edinburgh, this battle is also sometimes called the Battle of Falside.

It marked the beginning of a new phase in the Rough Wooing, the sustained English attempt to compel the Scots to accept a marriage between their queen and the English king. The overwhelming English victory destroyed the main Scots field force, allowed the English to establish garrisons across southern Scotland, and brought the French into the war on the Scottish side.

When the Scottish Parliament refused to ratify the Treaty of Greenwich in December 1543, Henry VIII launched successive invasions of Scotland to force acceptance of the main provision of the treaty, the marriage of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, to Prince Edward, the future Edward VI. At Henry’s death in January 1547, the Scots remained defiant. Because of the king’s youth, control of the English government passed to Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, who, as the king’s eldest uncle, assumed office as lord protector. In Scotland, the government of the even more youthful queen was headed by James Hamilton, Earl of Arran, who worked in uneasy partnership with a pro-French party led by the queen mother, Marie de Guise.

In late August 1547, while massing a force of more than 16,000 on the border at Berwick, Somerset issued a proclamation to the people of Scotland reminding them of the 1543 agreement and of the history and geography they shared with the English. His army, he claimed, was coming not to threaten Scotland, but “to defend and maintain the honour of both the princes and realms” sounds like a previous King eh?!

Crossing the frontier on 31 August, the English marched along the coast toward Edinburgh, supported on their flank by a fleet under Edward Fiennes de Clinton, Lord Clinton. Moving swiftly, the English seized castles along their line of march and dispersed harassing bands of Scots. On 9 September, Somerset encountered the main Scottish force, 20,000 in number, holding a strong position along the river Esk.

Next morning, Somerset ordered his right wing to assault the Scottish line, thereby shifting the entire army toward the Forth and the protection of Clinton’s guns. Arran, in command of the Scottish force, misinterpreted the movement; he believed Somerset was trying to avoid an engagement by taking his men to the coast for embarkation on the fleet. Arran accordingly ordered the Scots to leave their well-prepared defences and attack.

Seeing the Scottish movement, Somerset halted his army and formed line of battle. The Scots, far inferior to the English in cavalry, had no cover for the flanks of their pikemen, the same bristling formations of spearmen that James IV had used so ineffectively at Flodden Field. Slowed by cavalry charges and broken by artillery, the Scottish formations disintegrated, and the battle degenerated into a slaughter as the English infantry pursued the fleeing Scots to the gates of Edinburgh.

While English losses numbered 500 to 600, the Scots, figures vary from 6 to 15 thousand, over 2,000 were captured.

Organised Scottish resistance ceased, and Somerset spent the following months securing southern Scotland by seizing strong points and establishing a web of English garrisons centred on the fortress at Haddington.

Thanks to French inducements- Arran, who was given the title Duke of Chatelherault-and the efforts of the queen mother, the Scots turned in this emergency to their ancient ally, France.

Concluded in July 1548, the Treaty of Haddington promised the Scots French military assistance in return for the marriage of their queen to the eldest son of Henri II. In late July, Mary was spirited into France, there to be raised at Henri’s court. Although a victory for English arms, Pinkie was a defeat for English policy, opening a decade of French dominance in Scotland and ensuring that the Scottish queen would become Catholic in religion and French in sympathy.

Pinkie Cleugh was the last pitched battle between Scotland and England. The Memorial to the battle is at Salters Road near Wallyford.

Members of the Old Musselburgh Club with the Pinkie Cleugh Battlefield Group will,as we I post this,, led by a piper, walk along the battlefield trail, starting from the Roman Bridge in Musselburgh. and meeting at the memorial stone in time for the commemoration at 1pm, where the laying of floral tribute and speeches are made.

Ian Wood, club treasurer, will read 10 of the names out of the 10,000 who lost their lives in the conflict, which will be followed by an act of remembrance.

Pics include a wood cut depiction of the battle from not long after it happened, “The Raising of The Fire Cross for the Assembly of the Highland Clans before the Battle, a depiction of the battle and two of the memorials to the battle, the second is a relatively new one showing two soldiers in combat.

[somerset-official]

hello! im somerset, home to drunkards, farmers, fields, and hills!

please use he/it for me!

if you dont know what somerset is, im a british county in the south-west. my towns include bath, cheddar, bridgwater, and glastonbury.

@officially-dorset (if you get that tag idk my tumblrs fucked up rn) hello! british county twins!