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fangirlinglikeabus · 6 years ago

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Strings

Summary: In a bar in the middle of nowhere, two women meet. Frenchman’s Creek/Jamaica Inn crossover. Vague space AU. F/F. Mentions of rape, war, torture.

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Mary Yellan was born and grew up in the fields of Agros, learning from childhood all of the skills of farming. Then, when she was older, she stayed by the sea a while; she soon left there. But it wasn't in either of these places, although they shaped her in their own ways, that she met the woman - the laughing woman, full of life and happiness and sadness all at once. That happened years later, in a bar on the other side of the galaxy.

"Erna's a dangerous place for a lady to be, Miss. 'Specially round here."

Mary kept her eyes trained on the door; she was waiting, with some apprehension, for Jem's return. Any moment now she expected him to come waltzing through the door, a smug grin on his face, to take her rocketing off somewhere else before his customers had realised that the ships he had sold them were, underneath their new coats of paint, rather similar to ones recently reported missing.

"Is that so?" she said distractedly.

The man who had taken it upon himself to come and warn her nodded. "Oh yes," he said solemnly. "There are pirates operating in these parts."

This made Mary pay more attention. "Pirates?" she asked sharply. "What sort of pirates?"

"Why, they've been a terrible trouble to us here recently. Stealing the merchant-men's stock and everything. Causing havoc with the local women." He blushed at the thought.

A memory stirred in Mary's mind, of Joss Merlyn and his crew luring low-level ships to come crashing down onto the planet, killing the survivors. "Have they hurt anyone?" she asked.

"Oh, well, not as such, Miss, but we're awful fearful that they will. Foreigners, you know. From the outer reaches. There's even rumours that there's a woman on board."

Mary thought of her own adventures with Jem, and it occurred to her that this man would be horrified beyond belief if he heard of them. Perhaps if she were in a slightly different situation, she would've challenged him on it, but she needed to keep a low profile for Jem's sake. Instead of saying anything, she smiled and sipped at her drink. She noticed her hand was shaking slightly; places like this always made her skittish.

The man noticed. "Are you alright, Miss? I haven't scared you too much with my talk of pirates, have I?"

Mary smiled, but it felt insincere, even to her. "Oh, no," she said. "I'm not easily frightened."

"Quite right, too."

Mary turned around in her seat. It was a woman talking, one of the nobles in the place, by the looks of it. She smiled down, something of mischief in her eyes.

"You shouldn't talk so light of it, Lady St Columb," the man said gravely. "What with them taking advantage of our girls and all."

Lady St Columb leaned on the table so that she could better talk to the man; Mary watched her ringlets swing in front of her face, Jem momentarily forgotten. "Is that so?" she asked, in a tone of faux-politeness cultivated carefully over many years. "I rather thought they were enjoying being taken advantage of, myself, but I suppose it's always possible that I've misread the situation entirely."

The man stared at her in open mouthed shock, and she seized the moment to take Mary's arm. "Come on," she said in a low voice. "I'll take you somewhere quieter. You mustn't mind the tales of the men here, really. They're just frustrated because their wives prefer the pirates to them. I think if you spent enough time here you'd understand why."

Mary protested weakly - she'd really got to wait for someone, she wasn't planning to stay long, but Lady St Columb waved them away.

"Nonsense. And if your friend was the one trying to sell my husband a repainted stolen ship, he's already left. Not everyone is quite as gullible as Harry, and he was foolish enough to try and resell a man his own property."

Mary felt a familiar sense of frustration rise within her. The lady caught her expression.

"Done this before, has he?" she asked casually. At this point, they reached her table, and she pulled a seat aside for Mary, who dutifully sat down.

"Yes," said Mary. "But I can catch up with him, if I find someone that will take me soon."

"And deprive me of your company? How inconsiderate of you. There's no need to leave quickly, anyway; I have a friend with a fast ship that'll allow you to stay an hour more, at least."

In any other situation Mary might've coldly refused and left to find her own way back to Jem. But there was something about this woman - something in her smile. The same thing, perhaps, that had attracted her to Jem - a sort of wildness, although in her it was reserved, tied down by something else, an awareness of duty unfulfilled, perhaps, or merely less of a need to explore far and wide, to get a rush from law-defying activities. So she agreed, and stayed where she was.

"What did that man call you? Lady -"

"St Columb," the woman said smoothly. "But I really insist that you call me Dona. It makes everything so much more cosy, don't you think?" A smile tugged at her lips. "I don't think I ever caught your name."

"Mary. It's Mary." Even as she said it, Mary was aware of the danger in giving her name away to a complete stranger, but the smile drew her in, and she found herself ignoring every warning that Jem had ever given her.

"Well then, Mary -" the smile grew wider - "tell me about yourself."

Now she became distrustful. She remembered a man met on the moors, long ago, whose manner had encouraged her to pour her heart out; she remembered his snarling face as he dragged her away from safety. "I don't think I should," she said warily.

"No? Well, that's probably for the best. I doubt the line of business you're in is entirely legal. And my husband - bless him - likes to think that he's an important member of the local law enforcement. How do you know I won't just go running to him after I've seduced you for information?"

A smile tugged at the corners of Mary's mouth. "Seduce me?" she said.

"Well, of course. Didn't you realise that was what I was doing?"

"I think you're joking."

"Hm." Dona acknowledged the accusation with a shrug. "You might be right. Still…" She leaned forward in her chair, elbows on the table, head resting on her hands. "Don't you want to know what drew me to you?"

"Go on," Mary said cautiously. She couldn't let herself trust this woman, no matter how appealing she might seem.

"There's a sort of defiance in your eyes, in the way you hold your chin up. I think you could stare down a man holding a gun to your head and he'd apologise."

Mary shook her head. "You've read me wrong. I'd be scared." She thought of that night, the blood on the floor, being dragged across the moors.

Dona hummed again. She picked up the drink that had been resting on the table and sipped at it, never looking away from Mary. "Then why," she said, "did you choose to take up with a cheating ship thief? There's a lot of risk in a job like that. And I doubt the sex appeal alone would be enough to convince you."

That caused Mary to pause. "I don't know." She remembered Dona's flippancy at the talk of pirates, her friend with the fast ship, and made a wild guess. "Why did you choose to take up with a pirate?"

Dona didn't even flinch. But there was something more serious in her eyes as she said, "Perhaps I'm trying to run away from myself."

"Are you?"

"I've yet to find out. But don't you, sometimes, find some inexplicable dissatisfaction with your life that dogs you, no matter how hard you try to escape it? Maybe, to avoid it, you do some foolish, shameful thing. You hope with all your heart that by acting out you'll get a glimpse of what it means to live. And yet, there it is, that same dissatisfaction."

"Maybe you should travel," Mary suggested. A year ago, she'd never have thought it. A year ago, all she wanted was to head back home to the fields, even if there wasn't a place for her in her old house.

Dona shook her head and smiled; this time there was a sadness to it that Mary hadn't noticed before. "I'm too tied down to this place."

"By what? Your husband?"

She nodded. "And children. I have two: a boy - oh, he'll be marvellous, as marvellous as any mother thinks her son is going to be, as marvellous as any of the men here - and a girl. She's a silly thing, but I suppose it's cruel to mock her when it's a miracle that she'd be anything else in a place like this."

"You don't seem foolish to me."

"Well, you've only known me for less than an hour, so maybe you're not the best judge. You don't think my acquaintance with the most wanted man on the planet is foolish?"

"Only as foolish as travelling with a ship thief," Mary shot back. "I don't think either of us is in the position to judge."

"That's true," Dona mused. "That's very true. Perhaps, though, it gives us something in common." She looked Mary dead in the eyes. "Don't you think?"

"There are very few people I have anything in common with any more," Mary said quietly.

"Oh, come now, don't be like that." "Like what?"

"You're brooding. What happened? Something wonderfully gothic, I hope?"

"Gothic, maybe. But there was nothing wonderful about it." When she'd woken up after days lying unconscious and bruised, she'd been angry. Furious, even. Ready, despite her aunt's protests and the risk of further injury, to go downstairs and face Joss Merlyn. He was a monster, a dictator in his own home. She held no sympathy for him, even now. That didn't mean that she couldn't remember him pathetic, drunk, confessing his sins for her in some misplaced search for forgiveness. Or him dead on the floor of his house.

He'd been a fool to think he could be absolved of his crimes, and he'd been a fool to think he could survive making a deal with a man such as Francis Davy had been.

"How can you associate with pirates?" she asked. She hoped the question would distract Dona from her.

"How can you associate with a thief?" Dona shot back.

"No, but I mean - pirates do have a reputation for violence." She was thinking of the wreckers, not quite pirates but near enough, who had once lured only sea-ships to their doom, but had extended their work to the sky when ports were installed on that part of the planet; it was more dangerous, the crashes more explosive unless you could manoeuvre everything to just the right place, but maybe that was why they liked it. The added risk gave a wilder tint to their eyes.

"That's true," Dona conceded, "but fortunately for me these particular pirates happen to be of the honourable sort. Stealing from the rich to - well, stealing from the rich, at any rate. I'm not sure they've worked around to the other part yet." She smiled fondly. "Their enigmatic leader does, however, make a lovely soup. You should try it."

"You're sure he'll take me?"

"If I bat my eyelashes at him for long enough then yes." Dona leant forward on the table. "And I'm hoping that if I bat my eyelashes at you for long enough then you'll yield to my superior charms."

"And do what?"

Dona reached across to take Mary's hand. There were still old scars on it - she couldn't remember from where, maybe struggling across the moors, or something from her happy days and years of farming - and Mary flinched slightly when Dona's fingers brushed it. It was only a momentary reaction; she soon relaxed, and let herself enjoy the sensation of another's fingers playing across her palm.

"Whatever you want, darling," said Dona with a wink and a smile. Despite herself, despite the suspicion she felt, forced herself to feel, on any new acquaintance, Mary's heart fluttered. Always finding herself attracted to the wrong sort of people: a thief; a married woman who consorted with criminals. People who would be sure to get her in trouble.

"No strings attached," said Dona when she saw the expression on Mary's face change, thinking of her husband and her children and her pirate, all but the last inevitably tying her down to this place.

"No strings attached," Mary repeated back, only half-knowing what it meant but meaning it anyway; because of her dead parents, because of her dead aunt, because of a home lost for no reason except a change in herself.

"I know a place where we can have some more privacy," Dona told her.

Dona ended up batting her eyelashes at her pirate friend in a little under the hour promised. Mary could never remember his name, even after he'd introduced himself - in conversation with Dona he was always 'her friend', 'her pirate', like calling him anything else would create a gulf between two strangers, people who had never met before and really had nothing to tie them together, except for perhaps a dubiously similar taste in men and in each other.

Mary wasn't in love with Dona. She wasn't even sure if she was in love with Jem, and she'd known him for far longer. It wasn't like what they had could be called a relationship by any reasonable person.

Still, she could have been in love with Dona. Her wit, the way she spoke, was appealing, drawing Mary in; but she also felt something underneath, something that she couldn't quite put a name on. "Perhaps I'm trying to run away from myself." Dona's words stuck in her mind. Mary, on the other hand, wasn't trying to run away from herself; only her past. Seeing the ships crashing down, the murders of her aunt and uncle, being dragged across the moors by Francis Davy. The memories haunted her mind, waking and dreaming. After one of Joss' cronies had tried to rape her, it had been almost a year before the idea of being that close to Jem - or anyone else for that matter - stopped making her feel sick to her stomach. It was like a wound that would never quite heal - even the slightest of jolts would force the closed skin back open. Maybe she'd made the decision to go with Jem because she'd thought, subconsciously at least, that travel would help. It hadn't, but a large part of her now found the idea of returning to places of the past repulsive.

The pirate's ship was styled after the old sailing ships that Mary had sometimes seen rotting on the sea-shore near her uncle's inn, left there as technology advanced and more and more people stopped caring about the upkeep of such ancient things. It seemed Dona's friend had a taste for the old-fashioned. Of course, it couldn't be a perfect facsimile, given the added need for air in space, and the differing propulsion systems of a space-ship. He kept the sails, though. He claimed that it wouldn't look right without them.

True to Dona's word, the ship was surprisingly fast. Mary sat on the deck for the journey; after a while, Dona came to join her.

"I thought you'd be staying with your friend," Mary said.

Dona shrugged. "I can see my friend any time I want. You, however, I have only a limited amount of time left with." She sat down next to Mary and pulled herself closer, wrapping her arms around her companion.

"What did you mean earlier when you said 'no strings attached'?" Mary asked, her proximity to Dona focusing her mind onto their previous conversation.

"You mean you didn't know?" Dona asked, amused. "And yet you replied in kind. That's very trusting of you." She hesitated; Mary could hear her steady breaths, feel them as they fluttered the hair on the back of her head. "What I meant was - imagine, for a moment, that there are only two people in the world. You and me. We have no lovers, no reason to hesitate in whatever we choose to do. But once the moment is over, we return to being two strangers, free to move on with our lives and forget each other. It's very simple, really." She laughed. "And I think rather fanciful of me."

Mary didn't say anything. She watched the stars go by above them. Perhaps privately she agreed with Dona - it sounded like something out of the pages of a novel. But at the same time maybe she needed something fanciful, something to cheer her up.

Dona became quiet. She hummed slightly under her breath. Mary let herself melt into the sound, and they stayed like that for the rest of the journey.

In too short a time, they had caught up with Jem. He seemed relieved to see her, in his gruff way; there was no laughing, no embraces, with Jem Merlyn.

Dona said goodbye to her with a kiss. "It was nice meeting you, Mary," she said with a twinkle in her eye.

And soon after that the war began.

Really, they should have been prepared. There had been mumblings about danger in most places Mary and Jem had visited; minor conflicts, scraps over trade, moral arguments about the things being traded. But no-one had thought there would be a war. No-one ever did.

It was a mess that caught up nearly the whole system in alliances so convoluted that after it was all over there probably weren't many people who could figure out entirely what happened. At the end of the day, they made little difference: both sides had wanted land and control; both sides saw great destruction. And the people who won - the people who were now in charge of the entire system - had clamped down on government sanctioned slavery but turned a blind eye to the ships that scoured planets for people to kidnap, and which had seemingly doubled in number in the aftermath of the war.

Mary had - miraculously - managed to escape the whole thing relatively unscathed. She'd once more been separated from Jem, for much the same reason as before, but this time it hadn't been safe to catch a ride - movement between planets was, by law, extremely limited when the sky was peppered with the debris of people who had lost fights, and there wasn't anyone willing to risk legal action just to carry Mary somewhere. So she'd whiled away her time with a nervous young woman and her much older husband, immigrants to the particular outer reaches planet that she'd found herself on. Apparently some trouble at home had necessitated the move - she hadn't paid particular attention, mostly choosing to keep herself to herself, and they hadn't said much on the subject anyway. And when everything was over and an uneasy peace had settled, she said goodbye and set off in search of - something. She couldn't say quite what - Jem, maybe. She just knew she couldn't bear to sit still anymore.

Mary would never figure out what coincidence brought her to the exact same bar in Erna where she had met Dona three years earlier. Pirates were no longer plaguing the area - the war had played a part, as had the local authorities' eventual success in clamping down on their activities. Mysteriously, their arrested leader had managed to escape the prison on the day before his execution for the death of a man visiting from the city. No-one had managed to work out how he'd done it, but Mary gathered from a few resentful murmurings that Dona had been seen around the house where he was kept at the time.

"I always knew it was her," one man declared to Mary once he saw she was interested in the topic. He stared - very conspicuously - at her chest.

"No you didn't," his friend scoffed. "None of us did. It weren't till after she got caught for spying that any of us knew a bloody thing. Excuse my reaches speak, ma'am." He addressed this last remark to Mary.

Mary wanted to tell him that she'd heard much worse on her travels, but she bit her tongue. Instead, she asked, "Spying?"

"Yeah. It's the general feeling here, ma'am, that if it weren't for that damn - if it weren't for Lady St Columb, we would've done a bit better in the war."

"Might even've won!" His friend chimed in.

The man ignored him. "But it's alright, see, because she got her comeuppance for that. There's some here that think she could be punished more, but I'm a fair man. If you see what happened -"

He was cut off by the sound of the doors opening.

Mary could finish his sentence for him: "If you see what happened, you'll know what I mean." She got caught for spying. Mary sucked in a deep breath and tried to stop herself from trembling.

In the doorway stood Dona St Columb. A dark scar that barely missed her left eye crossed her face. It had never properly healed, and gave the impression that it could split apart the entire front of her head at any moment. One of her hands glinted in the sunlight; Mary guessed it was a replacement. There was a lot of demand for those nowadays. But her physical appearance wasn't the most shocking change. As Dona grew closer, Mary caught the look in her eyes. She could still remember the sadness in them before, and mingled with that the joy for life. Now they were just dead.

When Dona walked past her she stood up almost involuntarily. But what would she say to her? They'd met once, years ago. And once you'd gone through a horrible experience, whether it left scars on the outside or not, there was nothing anyone could say that wouldn't feel false. Mary knew that.

Dona slumped down at the bar and ordered a drink. Someone had left a newspaper there; she picked it up and began to flick through the pages. The front cover had an article about depowering the androids left after the war - 'androids', which implied artificial life rather than the near resurrection of the dead pioneered in the midst of fighting, was the accepted term now. Many people - including the writer - felt that it was unnatural to continue human life after death. These poor souls had died in the war, or not long before it, and they should be allowed to stay at rest. It occurred to Mary, as she read it from her position hovering at Dona's side, that no-one in this discussion had bothered to ask the 'poor souls' what they thought about being 'deactivated'.

Dona yanked down the newspaper, startling Mary out of her thoughts. "If you really want to read it," she said, "you could have asked me to give it to you, rather than standing so close by." There might have been a glimmer of recognition in her eyes; Mary couldn't tell.

"Hello," she tried. "Do you remember me?" She sat down next to Dona.

Silence.

Dona turned over a leaf of the paper. "It's funny," she said, "the disconnect between using such an impressive piece of technology -" here she waved her right hand - "to handle something so primitive." She flapped the paper. "But then again, this has always been a place that firmly believed in tradition, and everything that that implies. I had to call a man from off world to fix my hand up."

She finally turned to Mary. "Does it sound ridiculous that I missed you?" There was a flicker of a smile on her lips.

"What about your pirate?"

"He had other business during the war."

"Your husband?"

"He…" Dona paused. "When I was uncovered, he was really very sorry at what was happening - I could tell, he was, and shocked too, that his wife could do such a thing - but he didn't do anything to stop it. He told me that everything would be alright if I just confessed, he practically begged me to confess because he hated seeing me in pain. Unfortunately for him, I've always been stubborn. Then he died fighting. Brave enough to defend his homeland; not brave enough to defend his wife. I suppose it takes different types of strength to do either. I've been forgiven, you know, by the new government, but nobody trusts a spy, not even after an official pardon. My children were taken away after Harry died. So if you're thinking how extraordinarily ridiculous it is of me to miss a woman who I've only met once in my life, the truth is that I have nothing else left."

"I -" Mary hesitated, knowing she couldn't say 'I'm sorry', couldn't apologise for whatever horrible things had happened -"I wish I could do something to help."

"You're here. That's more than anyone else is. And please - don't tell me that your coming here was a coincidence. I'd much rather think that you sought me out on purpose." Dona's drink arrived, and she took a moment to taste it. She made a face. "This bar has always made terrible beer. I don't know why I bother anymore. What happened to your thief?"

"We got separated," Mary said, and left it at that. Dona let her.

"I need to get off this damn planet," she muttered to herself.

An idea occurred to Mary. "I have a ship," she said.

Dona looked up. "You do?" she asked. She seemed surprised, like she hadn't expected anyone to be listening to what she'd said.

"The Mary Anne. It's how I got here. There were people I stayed with, on the outer reaches, during the war. They gave me it. It's a bit patchy - a while ago there was some accident with it, don't ask me what because I don't know - but it could get us away."

"You're asking me to come with you?"

Mary hesitated. But she knew the necessity of leaving the places of the past behind you. "Yes."

"Well." Dona thought for a while. "You've lost your thief, I've lost my pirate. We could go looking for them." She glanced at Mary, and again there was that hint of a smile. "And have some fun along the way. I'm sure I can still remember how to enjoy myself, if I have you to help jog my memory." Hope was in her voice now. Cautious hope, but hope nevertheless.

"We can go straight away," said Mary. "After you've paid for your drink, that is." A memory came to her. "No strings attached?"

Dona dug around in her pocket for money, which she gave to the man behind the bar. "I don't have any strings left," she said. "Nothing to forget for the moment I'm with you." She tilted her head, sizing Mary up, admiring her. "So I think I can afford to make some new ties."

She stood up unsteadily and offered Mary her arm. Mary took it without hesitation and, together, they left the bar.

#frenchman's creek #jamaica inn #daphne du maurier #fanfiction #femslash #writing fanfiction like a bus #me? writing fic for niche literary pairings? it's more likely than you think

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everydreamhome · 7 years ago

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A fine collection of ivy? (on 'St. Columb's House') by National Library of Ireland on The Commons on Flickr.

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locuradelibrosblog · 6 years ago

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Empezando la lectura de una novela que le tenía muchas ganas y me está gustando mucho. Una Preciosa edición💙 EL RÍO DEL FRANCÉS #DaphneDuMaurier @albaeditorial. • • #ElRioDelFrances «Daphne Maurier escribía tramas emocionantes, era habilísima en la construcción del suspense… Una escritora de temeraria originalidad.» The Guardian Lady Dona St. Columb tiene veintinueve años y está casada con un baronet frívolo y satisfecho de sí mismo. Ocupa un lugar destacado en la corte de Carlos II, tiene muchos admiradores y cuando se aburre se disfraza de bandolero y asalta a ancianas condesas. Un día se lleva a sus dos hijos y se instala en Navron House, la casa familiar de su marido. En su camino se cruza un pirata francés que es el terror de la región: no tardará en pensar que son «el uno para el otro, dos trotamundos, dos fugitivos sacados del mismo molde». En El río del Francés (1941), Daphne du Maurier plantea si para una mujer la libertad equivale forzosamente a una huida, y si en cualquier caso es posible alguna vez «convertirse en otra persona». • • 📚#Clásicos #LeeClasicos #YoLeoAlbaEditorial #roman #Novela #AventuraRomantica #Leer #EncuentrosConEscritores #thriller #ClubDeLectura #ClubDeLecturaLL #booklover #recomiendoleer #Bookstagram #LecturasdePrimavera #LeerEsDeGuapas #BuenosEscritores #libros #lecturas #leeresvivir #leeressexy #encuentrosconescritores #NovedadesEditoriales #book 📚 (en Parque Lisboa) https://www.instagram.com/p/BxXs-7UncgW/?igshid=1wnv3kthfxn2u

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cornishbirdblog · 5 years ago

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Chun Quoit, one of Cornwall’s best preserved prehistoric monuments, is spectacularly located high on a hill in West Penwith. Leaning with your back against it’s sun-warmed stones you can see for miles, expansive views across moorland, farmland and out to sea. But what was this structure for and what did it represent to the people that built it?

“Chun Cromlech, it is not so large . . . but its lonely position on the shoulder of the hill makes it an impressive object” – A.G. Folliott-Stokes, 1928.

Cornish Quoits

Cornwall’s quoits are some of our most imposing and easily recognisable monuments. There are around 20 remaining in the region, mostly clustered in Penwith. Besides Chun Quoit they include Lanyon, Mulfra, Zennor, Trethevy and Carwynnen – old Cornish names that feel suitably ancient and transportive.

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At one time there were almost certainly many more of these monuments across the region. As Ian Soulsby theorises:

“The fate of the Devil’s Coyt (a dialect spelling form) near St Columb Major, enterprisingly used as a pigsty until it collapsed in the 1840s, and then used as a source of hedging stone, reminds us that they [quoits] were probably much more numerous, like countless other types of early Cornish monuments.”

The earliest name recorded for these prehistoric structures in Cornwall is Cromlegh in an early 10th century charter for St Buryan. (Crom meaning curved, legh meaning slab in Cornish.) This word is closely related to the Welsh equivalent, ‘Cromlech‘. Where the term ‘quoit’ comes from isn’t entirely clear. Some believe the name has a connection to the game ‘Quoits’, others that it comes from a Cornish dialect word.

Caitlin Green, a historian who specialises in early literature, helped me to decipher the etymology further. Although Caitlin isn’t sure when the word was first used in Cornish, it likely comes from a Welsh word meaning ‘discus’, a solid circular object thrown for sport. Quoit “derives from the Anglo-Norman ‘coite’ borrowed into English in the 14th/15th century and implies they were seen as huge discuses thrown by giants.”

The folklore in Cornwall associated with these monuments varies from quoit to quoit but Robert Hunt reported that as a whole they were considered sacred and untouchable.

“It is a common belief amongst the peasantry over every part of Cornwall, that no human power can remove any of those stones which have been rendered sacred to them by traditional romance. Many a time have I been told that certain stones had been removed by day, but that they always returned by night to their original positions, and that the parties who had dared to tamper with those sacred stones were punished in some way.”

Resting Places

Dolmens, cromlechs, quoits, hunebedden, dolmains, anta, trikuharri – there are many names for these stone structures which can be found in one form or another all across Europe, in Central Asia and as far away as Korea. The translation of the various names ranges from ‘stone table’ to ‘bed of giants’. Almost universally however they are considered by archaeologists to be funerary structures, places where our dead ancestors were laid to rest.

Hunebedden, Netherlands. Credit: Entoen.nu

Although the design of this type of monument varies greatly from region to region but in the main they are constructed from three or more uprights supporting a large capstone. Burials or cremations were then thought to have been deposited within the void.

It was thought that these megalithic frames were once covered with an earthen mound which was subsequently eroded away by the elements, but apparently that is no longer agreed upon by archaeologists.

It seems possible that the stone structures were built to be free standing. Many dolmans, such as Chun and Mulfra, do stand on a low platform of stones however.

The chambered tombs of Cornwall are some of our oldest surviving monuments and Chun is one of the best preserved. Accurately dating quoits is difficult, however, due to the lack of finds, but they are thought to have been constructed during the middle to late Neolithic, around 3500 – 2500BC. This makes Chun Quoit 4000 – 5000 years old roughly the same age as the Pyramids at Giza.

Alternative Explanations

With ancient history there is rarely one definitive answer. In all honesty all we are ever doing is making educated guesses about what some structures were and what the people who built them intended. Throw into the mix the possibility of changes in use over the centuries that followed and it is little wonder that there are often varied and conflicting interpretations of prehistoric monuments. Quoits are no different.

“These structures, which seem to have been much more than mere burial mounds, probably fulfilled a number of ceremonial and territorial roles.” – Ian Soulsby

Although most archaeologists would agree that quoits are tombs, that they were “stone structures in which the dead were laid”, some argue that this may not have been their sole function.

Peter Herring, a landscape historian and archaeologist working for Cornwall Council, suggests that quoits could have had many different functions beyond funerary. They could have been communal gathering places, they perhaps marked very early territories or may have been the focus of ritual and spiritual practices.

John Barnett also suggests that these monuments could have been territorial markers seen from a distance and that their imposing size could be in part intended to impress visitors or those taking part in ceremonies:

“. . .the frequent burials perhaps indicate the concept of an ancestral resting place that would have been central to the symbolic expression of territory. In areas where settlement was relatively dispersed with no ‘secular’ centre, this symbolic centre could become the most important place there is and would serve a number of ceremonial functions . . . “

Stuart Dow, a prolific dowser, creator of the Earth Energies, Alignments and Leys Facebook group and a dear friend, has another slightly different take on these sites.

“They are devices to focus and harness the earth’s energies . . . every dowser has found them to be, if you like, a ‘hot spot’. The burials came later when they became forgotten as devices but remembered as something very special erected by their ancestors. Chun quoit is a great example, the radials of energy coming from [it] are phenomenal.”

Stuart Dow’s map of the energy lines at Chun Quoit

Another local fountain of knowledge Cheryl Stratton points out in her book Pagan Cornwall that there have been reports of a strange light phenomena seen dancing along the edge of Chun quoit itself. I will leave the rest to your own personal interpretation.

Beautiful Chun

“Chun cromlech . . . rises with great effect from the rock strewn moor. It stands on a little tumulus and is as prefect as when erected.” – Murray’s Handbook for Devon & Cornwall, 1859.

The name Chun is believed to be a contraction of the Cornish Chy Woon meaning ‘the house on the down’. This quoit may be one of Cornwall’s smallest but it is in a remarkable state of preservation. Writing in 1897 John Lloyd Warden Page thought it “the most perfect of the cromlechs” and it seems to have altered little since.

Chun quoit is known as a portal dolmen. It is constructed of four mighty uprights and a capstone which is roughly 3.7m (12ft) square and 0.8m (2.5ft) thick. There are two upright stones on the east and west sides, one on the north and a forth non-supporting stone on the south side completing the boxed chamber.

“The Capstone is nearly round, and as it’s top is convex and it projects considerably over the four supporting stones, which are set close together forming a square chamber, the whole structure looks at a distance like a giant mushroom” – John Lloyd Warden Page, 1897

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Chun quoit is around 4000 years old and interestingly stands close to an ancient trackway. The route is known as the Tinner’s Way and has been in use since at least the early Bronze Age but is almost certainly older. It ran between the area near St Ives to the known Neolithic axe factories on the western cliffs near Kenidjack Castle.

In 1871 when Borlase excavated Chun quoit, he describes surrounding mound and stone platform as being 9.7m in diameter and surrounded by a kerb of small upright stones. He found nothing inside the chamber of the quoit itself. Other features of interest included a possible cist identified within the mound and a line of cup marks on the surface of the capstone, possibly from the Bronze Age. Both may indicate the importance the site held for local people for generation after generation.

Surrounding Landscape

No monument exists in isolation, and Chun Quoit is no different. Close by you can find Boswens Menhir, Men-an Tol, Tregeseal Stone Circles, Lanyon Quoit, Boskednan Stone Circle and many others. But the most obvious neighbour is Chun Castle built during the Iron Age.

Entrance to Chun Castle

This impressive and complex site was built long after the quoit and deserves a post all of its own which is why I won’t cover it in detail here.

Chun Downs on which the quoit and castle stand is an atmospheric place like so much of the Penwith, a place where it is easy to imagine strange events and mystical beings at large.

“On the plain beneath Chun castle are scores of small barrows, heaps of stone, piled about the height of three feet. Some have been opened no urns or bones were found, but the earth was discoloured as if it had been subjected to fire. They lie scattered about in all directions, as if there had been some fierce battle here, and the dead had been burnt and their ashes buried on the spot where they had fallen.” John Thomas Blight, 1861.

Blight’s description suggests that Chun quoit is part of a far larger ceremonial or funerary landscape. The hill around the quoit is often deeply covered in deep undergrowth so I have personally never noticed any small cairns. But thirty years after Blight, Warden-Page also noted these features:

“The cromlech was evidently the chief tomb among many smaller ones, for the hillside is covered with the remains of tumuli.”

A Sorry Tale

In April 1939 The Cornishman newspaper reported, as a part of an article sharing ‘old timers’ memories, a strange and tragic event that had occurred eighty years before.

According to the paper in around 1859 there were two elderly sisters living in a thatched hut near Chun Quoit. The Riddigan sisters also owned some land and another cottage on the downs rented by a man named Lavers.

Lavers fell behind on his rent and in an attempt to avoid paying he perpetrated an act of cruel desperation. One night he set fire to the sister’s hut and his own cottage and fled. The two women died in the fire. According to the article a field close to the quoit was from then on known as ‘Burnt House’.

Final Thoughts

I have been visiting Chun Quoit for more than twenty years and have always assumed that it was the site of an ancient burial but what I have learnt while preparing this post has opened my eyes to so many other possibilities. Chun has taken on a different much more complex personality for me now. It just goes to show that there is always more waiting to be discovered about these wonderful prehistoric sites!

There are pages still waiting to be turned.

Further Reading:

Carn Kenidjack – the Hooting Cairn

Zennor Head

Thoughts of Carwynnen Quoit

Chun Quoit Chun Quoit, one of Cornwall's best preserved prehistoric monuments, is spectacularly located high on a hill in West Penwith.

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babakziai · 5 years ago

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1. The Ministry of Fear for Seamus Deane Well, as Kavanagh said, we have lived In important places. The lonely scarp Of St Columb’s College, where I billeted For six years, overlooked your Bogside. I gazed into new worlds: the inflamed throat Of Brandywell, its floodlit dogtrack, The throttle of the hare. In the first week I was so homesick I couldn’t even eat The biscuits left to sweeten my exile. I threw them over the fence one night In September 1951 When the lights of houses in the Lecky Road Were amber in the fog. It was an act Of stealth. Then Belfast, and then Berkeley. Here’s two on’s are sophisticated, Dabbling in verses till they have become A life: from bulky envelopes arriving In vacation time to slim volumes Despatched `with the author’s compliments’. Those poems in longhand, ripped from the wire spine Of your exercise book, bewildered me— Vowels and ideas bandied free As the seed-pods blowing off our sycamores. I tried to write about the sycamores And innovated a South Derry rhyme With hushed and lulled full chimes for pushed and pulled. Those hobnailed boots from beyond the mountain Were walking, by God, all over the fine Lawns of elocution. Have our accents Changed? ‘Catholics, in general, don’t speak As well as students from the Protestant schools.’ Remember that stuff? Inferiority Complexes, stuff that dreams were made on. ‘What’s your name, Heaney?’ ‘Heaney, Father.’ ‘Fair Enough.’ On my first day, the leather strap Went epileptic in the Big Study, Its echoes plashing over our bowed heads, But I still wrote home that a boarder’s life Was not so bad, shying as usual. On long vacations, then, I came to life In the kissing seat of an Austin 16 Parked at a gable, the engine running, My fingers tight as ivy on her shoulders, A light left burning for her in the kitchen. And heading back for home, the summer’s Freedom dwindling night by night, the air All moonlight and a scent of hay, policemen Swung their crimson flashlamps, crowding round The car like black cattle, snuffing and pointing The muzzle of a Sten gun in my eye: ‘What’s your name, driver?’ ‘Seamus …’ Seamus? They once read my letters at a roadblock And shone their torches on your hieroglyphics, ‘Svelte dictions’ in a very florid hand. Ulster was British, but with no rights on The English lyric: all around us, though We hadn’t named it, the ministry of fear. 2. A Constable Calls His bicycle stood at the window-sill, The rubber cowl of a mud-splasher Skirting the front mudguard, Its fat black handlegrips Heating in sunlight, the ‘spud’ Of the dynamo gleaming and cocked back, The pedal treads hanging relieved Of the boot of the law. His cap was upside down On the floor, next his chair. The line of its pressure ran like a bevel In his slightly sweating hair. He had unstrapped The heavy ledger, and my father Was making tillage returns In acres, roods, and perches. Arithmetic and fear. I sat staring at the polished holster With its buttoned flap, the braid cord Looped into the revolver butt. ‘Any other root crops? Mangolds? Marrowstems? Anything like that?’ ‘No.’ But was there not a line Of turnips where the seed ran out In the potato field? I assumed Small guilts and sat Imagining the black hole in the barracks. He stood up, shifted the baton-case Farther round on his belt, Closed the domesday book, Fitted his cap back with two hands, And looked at me as he said goodbye. A shadow bobbed in the window. He was snapping the carrier spring Over the ledger. His boot pushed off And the bicycle ticked, ticked, ticked. 3. Orange Drums, Tyrone, 1966 The lambeg balloons at his belly, weighs Him back on his haunches, lodging thunder Grossly there between his chin and his knees. He is raised up by what he buckles under. Each arm extended by a seasoned rod, He parades behind it. And though the drummers Are granted passage through the nodding crowd, It is the drums preside, like giant tumours. To every cocked ear, expert in its greed, His battered signature subscribes ‘No Pope’. The goatskin’s sometimes plastered with his blood. The air is pounding like a stethoscope. 4. Summer 1969 While the Constabulary covered the mob Firing into the Falls, I was suffering Only the bullying sun of Madrid. Each afternoon, in the casserole heat Of the flat, as I sweated my way through The life of Joyce, stinks from the fishmarket Rose like the reek off a flax-dam. At night on the balcony, gules of wine, A sense of children in their dark corners, Old women in black shawls near open windows, The air a canyon rivering in Spanish. We talked our way home over starlit plains Where patent leather of the Guardia Civil Gleamed like fish-bellies in flax-poisoned waters. ‘Go back,’ one said, ‘try to touch the people.’ Another conjured Lorca from his hill. We sat through death-counts and bullfight reports On the television, celebrities Arrived from where the real thing still happened. I retreated to the cool of the Prado. Goya’s ‘Shootings of the Third of May’ Covered a wall—the thrown-up arms And spasm of the rebel, the helmeted And knapsacked military, the efficient Rake of the fusillade. In the next room, His nightmares, grafted to the palace wall— Dark cyclones, hosting, breaking; Saturn Jewelled in the blood of his own children, Gigantic Chaos turning his brute hips Over the world. Also, that holmgang Where two berserks club each other to death For honour’s sake, greaved in a bog, and sinking. He painted with his fists and elbows, flourished The stained cape of his heart as history charged. 5. Fosterage for Michael McLaverty ‘Description is revelation!’ Royal Avenue, Belfast, 1962, A Saturday afternoon, glad to meet Me, newly cubbed in language, he gripped My elbow. ‘Listen. Go your own way. Do your own work. Remember Katherine Mansfield—I will tell How the laundry basket squeaked … that note of exile.’ But to hell with overstating it: ‘Don’t have the veins bulging in your Biro.’ And then, ‘Poor Hopkins!’ I have the Journals He gave me, underlined, his buckled self Obeisant to their pain. He discerned The lineaments of patience everywhere And fostered me and sent me out, with words Imposing on my tongue like obols. 6. Exposure It is December in Wicklow: Alders dripping, birches Inheriting the last light, The ash tree cold to look at. A comet that was lost Should be visible at sunset, Those million tons of light Like a glimmer of haws and rose-hips, And I sometimes see a falling star. If I could come on meteorite! Instead I walk through damp leaves, Husks, the spent flukes of autumn, Imagining a hero On some muddy compound, His gift like a clingstone Whirled for the desperate. How did I end up like this? I often think of my friends’ Beautiful prismatic counselling And the anvil brains of some who hate me As I sit weighing and weighing My responsible tristia. For what? For the ear? For the people? For what is said behind-backs? Rain comes down through the alders, Its low conducive voices Mutter about let-downs and erosions And yet each drop recalls The diamond absolutes. I am neither internee nor informer; An inner émigré, grown long-haired And thoughtful; a wood-kerne Escaped from the massacre, Taking protective colouring From bole and bark, feeling Every wind that blows; Who, blowing up these sparks For their meagre heat, have missed The once-in-a-lifetime portent, The comet’s pulsing rose. Seamus Heaney, “Singing School” from Opened Ground: Selected Poems 1966-1996. Copyright © 1998 by Seamus Heaney. Used by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, LLC, https://ift.tt/1qc5Is0. All rights reserved. Source: Opened Ground: Selected Poems 1966-1996(Farrar Straus and Giroux, 1998) Seamus Heaney BiographyMore poems by this author Poem of the Day: Singing School Poem of the Day: Singing School Poem of The Day {$excerpt:n} Source: Poem of The Day

http://babakziai.org/poem-of-the-day-singing-school/

#Poetry #Babak Ziai

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euroman1945-blog · 6 years ago

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The Daily Tulip

The Daily Tulip – News From Around The World

Monday 20th August 2018

Good Morning Gentle Reader…. Are you ready to do battle for another week, I hope so... Heavy cloud rolled in yesterday and its thick this morning, no moon or stars to wax about today, the temperature has dropped, that's a plus, currently at 19c a 10 degree drop from the same time yesterday... and a breeze cool blowing in from the Atlantic.. Both Bella and I love it like this...and it makes the walk so enjoyable rather than the punishment we seemed to endure yesterday...... but for now Bella and I will head back to the house and get refreshments and I will type.....

CORNWALL MEN WHO SOLD £2M WORTH OF COUNTERFEIT GOODS SENTENCED…. A postmaster and his cousin imported and sold more than £2m of fake goods, including toys, musical instruments and car badges. Gregory Whitehead, 49, and William Lemoyne, 36, both admitted conspiring to sell counterfeit goods from a warehouse described as an "Aladdin's cave". At Truro Crown Court, Whitehead, of St Austell, was jailed for 32 months. Lemoyne, of Camborne, was given a suspended sentence. Judge Robert Linford said it was a "sophisticated, commercial, for profit operation", and warned them a proceeds of crime hearing will leave them as "ruined men". Cornwall Council said it was the largest counterfeiting investigation ever carried out by its trading standards team. Prosecutor Alexander Greenwood told the court trading standards had searched a number of properties in February 2016. Among these was a commercial building in Carbean Mill near St Austell that was described in court as an "Aladdin's cave" where they seized more than 90,000 items. These were predominantly car badges for brands that included Alfa Romeo, Volvo, Vauxhall, Honda, Volkswagen and Audi. The items had been imported from China, and sold on using eBay and Amazon using a number of bank accounts. Financial investigators estimated the total value of the infringing goods sold was more than £2m, while seized items were worth an estimated £250,000. Mr Greenwood said Whitehead, who has been suspended from his job at the post office in St Columb near Newquay, was "at the heart of a complex conspiracy to import counterfeit goods from China and sell them in the UK and abroad". Lemoyne was given a two-year prison sentence, suspended for two years.

NEWHAM LONDON POLICE ESCAPE: CHEERING ONLOOKERS CONDEMNED…. A police officer has condemned people who cheered a man escaping police after a confrontation which left two officers requiring hospital treatment. The incident on Romford Road, Newham, east London, was filmed and shared on social media with laughter and shouts of encouragement clearly audible. But Supt Roy Smith described it as a "sad state of affairs". Two men have been arrested on suspicion of assault on police and possession of a firearm. The fight broke out after two officers stopped a "suspicious" car and carried out a search on Thursday afternoon. The men got out of the car and "a struggle ensued", the Met said. A female officer suffered a broken bone in her right hand and a male officer sustained ligament damage that needed surgery. Supt Smith tweeted it was "disappointing to see members of the public filming this and laughing at the officers". Det Supt Sean Yates said: "Acting on instinct when approaching a suspicious car, [the officers] were confronted with two aggressive men who have intimated that they were armed. "The officers put themselves in harm's way to protect the public and I would urge anyone with any information to come forward." One man, aged 25, was arrested at the scene on Romford Road, and a 23-year-old was arrested on Grantham Road following a search of nearby gardens. No firearm has been recovered and a "search for it is ongoing", the Met said.

MAN RETURNS TO BANK HE ROBBED 60 YEARS AGO FOR CHAMPAGNE LUNCH…. In October 1958, a young Canadian bank teller walked away with C$260,958 from his employer's safe. Boyne Lester Johnston, 27, was on the run for 17 days before he was caught and sentenced to four years in prison. Sixty years later, he walked back into the bank in Ottawa, Canada, which has since been converted into a fancy restaurant. The reformed thief recalled the 1958 heist over a champagne lunch with staff. He walked away with about $2.2m in current Canadian dollars ($1.7m; £1.3m), launching a North America-wide manhunt. A $10,000 reward was offered for information leading to his arrest. Mr Johnston was caught by police in Denver, Colorado, as he sipped champagne at a nightclub bar, living up to the description on the wanted poster released at the time by Ottawa police. It read: "Neat dresser, nightclub habitue, a champagne drinker, enjoys female companionship." Alex McMahon, wine director at Ottawa's Riviera restaurant, told the BBC that staff at the eatery knew about the old heist. So when an online reservation came in noting the guest would be "bringing my friend back to the bank that he robbed", he said they all had a hunch who it might be. Mr Johnston and his friend enjoyed a meal last week over champagne cocktails. He told Mr McMahon that his time in jail had taught him to value his freedom. At Mr McMahon's request, Mr Johnston signed the wall of the wine cellar, which is located where the emptied bank vault once was. The one-time thief added his four-digit prisoner number next to his name.mThe former bank teller had stolen the money on a Friday, taking cash from out of the vault and hiding it around the premises. He returned after hours to collect his stash. That Sunday, about 36 hours after the theft - and before the bank opened on Monday revealing an empty vault - he told his wife he was going hunting. He never returned, instead fleeing to the US and travelling to Detroit, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City, Utah and eventually, Denver. According to one newspaper report following his capture, he told the arresting officers that he stolen the money "because I had always wanted to know what it would be like to have all that money".

DR BUMBUM, BRAZIL COSMETIC SURGEON, CHARGED WITH MURDER…. A celebrity Brazilian cosmetic surgeon known as Dr Bumbum has been charged with murdering one of his patients. Dr Denis Furtado performed an operation on patient Lilian Calixto to enlarge her buttocks in his own flat, helped by his mother, girlfriend and maid. He used a far larger dose of a chemical than advisable during the procedure, the charge sheet said. Moreover, he was allegedly not registered to practice medicine in the state of Rio de Janeiro. Dr Furtado is said to have carried out the procedure on Ms Calixto, a 46-year-old bank manager and mother-of-two, at his home in Rio de Janeiro last month - but she fell ill during the procedure. He then took her to a hospital where her condition worsened and she died some hours later, police said. Local media reported at the time that she arrived at the hospital suffering from an abnormally fast heart rate. The public prosecutor's office in Rio de Janeiro said the doctor "had attracted women with the false promise of quick and immediate beauty". He used 300ml of the substance PMMA - a synthetic resin also known as acrylic glass filler - during the procedure, the charge sheet said, "when it is recommended that it is used only in very small doses and in a restricted way". The Brazilian Plastic Surgery Society has warned against using PMMA for any aesthetic purposes. His flat meanwhile was prepared for surgery "in a very provisional and precarious way", which added to the risks. Moreover, while he was licensed to practice in the state of Goiás and in Brasilia, he was not licensed in Rio. His mother, Maria de Fátima Barros Furtado, also faces charges. She allegedly continued to practise medicine and operate with her son after her medical license was revoked. Dr Furtado had disappeared after the operation, but police caught him in July after four days on the run.

CHINA, TAIWAN AND A BAKERY: HOW A COFFEE SPARKED A DIPLOMATIC ROW…. A bakery in the US has found itself at the centre of a geopolitical storm by giving a coffee to Taiwan's president. The LA branch of Taiwanese-owned 85C Bakery Cafe gave the coffee, along with an enthusiastic welcome, to Tsai Ing-wen when she dropped in last Sunday. But many Chinese customers - who visit the chain's branches in mainland China - were furious, calling for a boycott. China regards Taiwan as part of its territory, and the Chinese public are often quick to jump on anything that is seen as endorsing Taiwanese independence. Warmly welcoming Ms Tsai, the leader of a pro-independence party, was seen as unacceptable. Yet, when the bakery chain tried some damage control, quickly putting out a statement distancing itself from pro-independence sentiments, it only sparked more anger - this time in Taiwan, where people accused the company of bowing to Chinese pressure.

Well Gentle Reader I hope you enjoyed our look at the news from around the world this, morning… …

Our Tulips today are perfection... do you expect anything else?

A Sincere Thank You for your company and Thank You for your likes and comments I love them and always try to reply, so please keep them coming, it's always good fun, As is my custom, I will go and get myself another mug of "Colombian" Coffee and wish you a safe Monday 20th August 2018 from my home on the southern coast of Spain, where the blue waters of the Alboran Sea washes the coast of Africa and Europe and the smell of the night blooming Jasmine and Honeysuckle fills the air…and a crazy old guy and his dog Bella go out for a walk at 4:00 am…on the streets of Estepona…

All good stuff....But remember it’s a dangerous world we live in

Be safe out there…

Robert McAngus

#robertmcangus #robert mcangus #spain #tulips #news #travel #blog

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pestdeterrentservices · 6 years ago

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Fleas in House in St Columb Major #Flea #Treatment #Control #St...

Fleas in House in St Columb Major #Flea #Treatment #Control #St #Columb #Major https://t.co/6JV87TPEsP

— Pest Control Service (@pestremovaluk) June 21, 2018

from Pest Control Services https://pestcontrolservicesuk.tumblr.com/post/175109662901 via IFTTT

#pest control experts #pest control services #unwanted pest support #pest exterminators #Pest Control

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marks-of-time · 7 years ago

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520 www.Marksoftime.com

Lets start at Clooney church. Located in the grounds of St Columb’s Park in the Waterside area of Derry~Londonderry not far from the Limavady Road (which is renamed Clooney Road as it leaves the city). The church today looks much as drawn on the first map of the city drafted by the invading English in 1600. It is ruinous, on top of a small hill and retains its gables. In fact, the building was rebuilt in the 1620′s and has since fallen into ruin again. It is thought to have been previously rebuilt in the 1580′s following the demolition of the previous church in the 1480′s by the local Bishop. The building is recorded as having been plundered by the Normans in the 1190′s and is thought to be the site of the ancient church of ‘Cluain-i’. It is associated with St Brecan -an early Irish saint thought to be from Movilla in Co Down with a feast day of 16 July. In the nineteenth century it became an eye catcher within the landscaped grounds of a merchant’s house and today is located within a civic park. It is an atmospheric place, timeless in its beauty.

#church #cloony #clooney #medieval #waterside #normans #watercolour #sketch #history

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solarpanelsnetwork · 7 years ago

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http://ift.tt/2zUYDJv - Solar Panel Installation in St Columb Major. Fully vetted installers. Save money on your energy bills as you produce your own energy. Get paid for the energy you generate and even more for the energy you feed back into the grid. Help reduce the production of carbon dioxide and other greenhouse gases. Contact us today. Our network of companies work with our customers to deliver the highest quality, most cost effective and visually attractive solar installation, with the minimal impact to their surroundings and their environment. The Solar Panels Network was established to save you time and money. We have researched and fully vetted the installers in our network to ensure they deliver the highest of standards. The installers in our network have vast experience and hold a diverse range of certifications and accreditation. We cover the whole of the UK and we will put you in touch with right solar panel installers. Your satisfaction is our number one priority. We have many happy residential and commercial customers . #SolarPanels #SolarPV #Solar #StColumbMajor Solar Panels Network Kemp House 152 City Road London Greater London EC1V 2NX 020 3389 9828 Website: http://ift.tt/2yOQiHt

#IFTTT #YouTube

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williamemcknight · 7 years ago

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Council’s St Columb’s Park Walled Garden Peace Project secures full planning permission

Derry City and Strabane District Council’s Planning Committee have unanimously approved proposals to make significant infrastructural improvements to the historic Walled Garden at Columb’s Park.

The Council led project, supported by the EU’s PEACE IV Programme, will regenerate the historic Old Walled Garden and will be supported by a programme of peace building activities.

The approved plans for the site will complement the wider St Columb’s Park Regeneration Plan and include stone wall repairs, new entrance gates and pillars and the reinstatement of the 1873 walled garden path lay-out.

Mayor of Derry City and Strabane District Council, Councillor Maolíosa McHugh welcomed this latest progress in the park’s redevelopment.

“I would like to warmly welcome the approval of planning permission to regenerate the Old Walled Garden which is a positive step in restoring this historically significant space to its former glory,” he said.

“The St Columb’s Park Regeneration Plan is a priority capital project in the Strategic Growth Plan for the City and District and I would like to acknowledge the generous funding of over £370K from Peace IV without which this development would not be possible.

“The continued progress on this project is facilitated by a strong working partnership between Council’s Parks Management and Development team, St Columb’s Park House and the Acorn Fund.”

Welcoming the project Gina McIntyre, CEO of the Special EU Programmes Body, which manages the PEACE IV Programme said: “We are delighted that the European Union’s PEACE IV Programme has been able to support this latest development which will improve the infrastructure in St Columb’s Park.”

“Upon completion this development will create a new community space that will offer an attractive setting where people from all communities and backgrounds can meet, enjoy the facilities, and most importantly learn from each other.

“PEACE IV funding will also be used to support a wide-range of peace and reconciliation focused activities within the outdoor space.”

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carlsonknives · 7 years ago

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Unforgettable Luxury Glamping Holidays at Fir Hill Yurts, Cornwall

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Idyllic countryside with abundant wildflowers, close proximity to dramatic Cornish coastline and a historic estate full of intrigue, and that’s barely scratching the surface. Since being abandoned in the 1940’s, the Fir Hill estate in Colan near Newquay, has recently been transformed into a stunning glamping site, providing stylish traditional Mongolian yurt accommodation.

The Fir Hill yurts are completely off-grid and set within 62 acres of woodland, just 5km from Newquay and a short walk away from Porth Reservoir. There are currently 9 yurts on site, providing comfortable and spacious accommodation, ideal for family holidays.

The Yurt Accommodation

The construction of these traditional Mongolian yurts is perfection. With not a gap in sight and generous use of material layers including thick 100% sheep wool felt insulation, the result is a truly cosy interior, snug during chilly summer nights and yet surprisingly cool during the day.

After a long but pleasant drive and a warm welcome, I settle into my own Tardis-like yurt. Inside I find a kingsize and two double beds, each equally comfortable, along with bedside tables and lanterns. There’s also two large armchairs, and unlike most glamping accommodation I’ve stayed in, there’s also somewhere to hang clothes up and a set of drawers allowing me to tidy away the contents of my bags and make myself at home.

Each yurt is set within its own landscaped grounds, dominated with a spacious decked area which includes a picnic bench. Beyond that, each yurt has its own kitchen shelter containing cutlery, crockery, cookware, a kettle and gas burner.

The camper in me dictates I must be over-prepared for every situation, and I bring my own cool box, crockery and cookware with me. I needn’t have bothered though, everything I need, including a good quality igloo cool box and even kindling for my personal fire pit, is right here.

Each yurt comes with its own well equipped kitchen shelter

My usually invaluable solar power hub proves unnecessary too, as the barn, a funky communal space that guests are encouraged to use, is not only a great space to relax in, but a convenient place to recharge any essential devices.

Despite it being the August Bank holiday weekend, good weather is of course never a given in the UK, but for 5 days straight I awoke to blue skies and blazing sunshine, the ideal weather to enjoy glamping to it’s fullest, and perfect for exploring the grounds of the estate and this part of Cornwall.

The Fir Hill Estate

The estate is a historic treasure trove, rich in archaeological features that provide glimpses into the ancient use of the woodland, including what’s thought to be the remains of a rare Ochre mine, as well as clear evidence of the John Edyvean canal, an ambitious scheme to create a lockless canal sytem, running from Mawgan Porth to St Columb Porth, that was never completed.

I enjoy a lazy afternoon walk through the estate grounds in the company of charming owner, Charlie Hoblyn. As we walk he talks animatedly, revealing future plans, pointing out archaeological features and sharing his seemingly endless knowledge of the trees and plants that we pass.

Charlies words demonstrate a clear love for this place, and his commitment to the land is evident in meticulous woodland management and the planting of hundreds of new trees, ensuring that for every area of ground cleared to accommodate yurts, at least as much has been replanted, and his enthusiasm and passion is infectious.

The sun setting over Porth Reservoir, viewed from the barn

I can think of no better environment for a relaxing, back to nature family holiday, but don’t expect back to basics from this glamping site. The facilities here are excellent.

The barn is a stunning building with the most incredible countryside views that lead the eye down towards Porth Reservoir. Packed full of comfy sofas, stunning wooden tables and a cupboard full of boardgames, the first floor features enormous picture windows; the perfect vantage point from which to view the setting sun.

Inside the barn which guests are free to use

From the secluded woodland setting of the estate, it’s hard to believe the lively coastal town of Newquay is only a few kilometres away. Indeed, the only real clue as to the proximity of the coast are the many wetsuits slung over the small wooden fences that surround each occupied yurt. When I return after a day on the water exploring the dramatic St Agnes coastline, knowing my own wetsuit will soon be drying in the warm evening sunshine is curiously gratifying.

My wetsuit drying in the sunshine after a day on the water

Out and About

Don’t be mistaken into believing that all this part of Cornwall has to offer revolves around the sea though. Whilst the powerful Atlantic is a huge draw to surfers and adrenaline junkies alike, within half an hour in either direction of the Fir Hill, there are an endless number of places to see and things to do.

From walking the superb South West Coast Path, ambling around delightful little fishing villages and sampling fresh Cornish crab, shopping or even trying your hand at local arts and crafts, through to the more obvious crowd pleasers like Newquay Zoo and The Eden Project; the area provides something for absolutely everyone.

Bedruthan Step is a short drive away

I spend my evenings reading, either sitting outside on my deck, or laying on my ridiculously comfortable bed, yurt door flung open, allowing me to glance up every now and again to appreciate the stunning views. The closeness of such ancient woodland is truly calming. The quiet is punctuated by cattle lowing and the plaintive cries of Buzzards; all to the backing of delicate twittering birdsong and the distant carefree sound of children playing.

Enjoying the sun setting after another glorious day

The final verdict

My own five days at the Fir Hill flew by, and a week or more could very easily and comfortably be spent here.

For those seeking an alternative family holiday or for couples wanting a romantic long weekend break at the luxury end of the glamping scale, the Fir Hill offers everything you could want from a glamping holiday, and at the end of your stay, you’ll be sad to leave this slice of idyllic Cornish countryside behind.

Why should you choose the Fir Hill yurts?

The Fir Hill yurts are perfectly located for exploring the north Cornwall coastline. Half an hour south takes you to historic St. Agnes where I booked a superb sea kayaking trip with Koru Kayaking, whilst half an hour north will get you to Padstow and beyond.

The estate is a short drive from Newquay and all of its attractions, I went on the Newquay Sea Safaris seal spotting boat tour and can throughly recommend it.

The Fir Hill estate is stunning and packed full of the historic remnants of the old Manor house and it’s numerous outbuildings. Wild and enchanting, the woodland here is ripe for exploration.

The quality of the yurts is exceptional. Whilst they don’t contain wood burning stoves, their construction is such that even in the colder months, I suspect they would remain comfortably habitable.

The rustic wooden bedframes house ridiculously comfy beds with warm duvets, woolen throws and plump pillows – I promise you will not sleep badly here.

The facilities are excellent and over the coming years are set to get even better, with plans to develop further woodland walkways and to install wood-heated hot tubs.

Generous light, airy and clean shower and toilet rooms (with off-grid power and water heating) are a pleasure to use. Just bring your toiletries, flip flops and a fluffy robe.

A great team including owner Charlie, cousin Phillip and younger Charlie who are full of smiles and happy to chat or answer questions.

Lilly, the adorably placid big grey labradoodle who rolls over for a tummy rub and often pads over to the yurts at breakfast time in hope of a sausage.

Find out more or book your holiday at the Fir Hill Glamping here.

See more photographs of Fir Hill Glamping.

Thank you to Charlie at the Fir Hill for inviting me to stay.

The post Unforgettable Luxury Glamping Holidays at Fir Hill Yurts, Cornwall appeared first on Camping with Style Camping Blog | Activities • Glamping • Travel • Adventure.

Original Source http://www.campingwithstyle.co.uk/unforgettable-luxury-glamping-holidays-at-fir-hill-yurts-cornwall/ For the best knives to use whilst camping check out Carlson Knives http://www.carlsonknives.com/

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hallsp · 7 years ago

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The island of Ireland was partitioned in 1921. The southern part became a free state, then an independent Republic, while the northern part remained a constituent of the United Kingdom.

This divided land represented a divided people: the largely-Protestant “unionist” majority in the north, and the largely-Catholic “nationalist” majority in the south.

Northern Ireland was contrived to appease the unionist population, who refused to support Home Rule for Ireland, a step towards independence from the United Kingdom, and wished to remain part of the Union of Great Britain and Ireland.

The North held onto six of the nine counties of the old province of Ulster, including the majority-nationalist counties of Fermanagh and Tyrone, while the Republic kept the remaining three counties of Ulster, alongside the twenty-three counties of the three southern provinces.

Until the early 17th century, Ulster was the most Gaelic, and the most troublesome, province in Ireland. Then, in 1609, King James began settling English-speaking Protestants in the lands confiscated by the crown following the defeat of the rebellious Hugh O’Neill and Red Hugh O’Donnell at the end of the Nine Years’ War.

These Protestant settlers would eventually become the unionist majority in Northern Ireland, exhibiting a kind of siege mentality. Conversely, the irredentist Irish became the nationalist minority. Of course, it’s complicated somewhat these days by the existence of Protestant republicans, Catholic unionists, agnostic socialists, and curmudgeons on all sides.

The northern state was governed by Protestants in the interest of Protestants. In fact, in 1934, Lord Craigavon, the first Prime Minister of Northern Ireland, replied to a parliamentary question from George Leeke by stating boldly: “All I boast of is that we are a Protestant Parliament and a Protestant State.”

The “Troubles” of the 1960s and 70s began when Catholics began agitating for equal rights and equal opportunity, in conscious emulation of the civil rights movement in the United States. The Protestants opposed any change to the status quo, perceiving the civil rights movement as an instrument of the IRA, whose aim was a United Ireland.

One city, above all, was at the epicentre of this conflict. Derry/Londonderry, known sardonically as Stroke City, is a walled city on the North Atlantic coast of Northern Ireland. On the western border with the Republic of Ireland, it’s a small city of about one-hundred thousand people, which makes it the second-largest city in the North, after Belfast.

Derry is one of the oldest continuously inhabited places in Ireland, originally founded by Saint Columb, also known as Colum Cille, as a monastic settlement in the 6th century. It was rebuilt and fortified between 1613 and 1619, during the Plantation of Ulster, with money from the London guilds, and renamed. Hence, it’s Derry to nationalists, and Londonderry to unionists. The division begins with it’s name, but it doesn’t simply end there. Derry, like many places in Northern Ireland, is a city with a split personality.

I’d never visited Derry before, so, in early March, I decided to take a road trip. It’s a strange time for Northern Ireland: the UK have voted for Brexit, and will soon trigger Article 50 of the Lisbon Treaty, officially beginning negotiations towards their departure from the EU. This, in spite of Northern Ireland, along with Scotland, having voted to remain.

Old questions about the border, about identity, and about the future of the peace process are being asked anew, and much uncertainty lies ahead.

The fragile power-sharing government in Stormont, set up after the lengthy peace process, has also just collapsed in the wake of the so-called “ash-for-cash” scandal.

This particular fiasco centres around a badly designed Renewable Heat Incentive (RHI) scheme which will result in a massive overspend of about £400 million. Sinn Féin, the dominant nationalist party, refused to continue in government with the Democratic Unionist Party (DUP) because their leader, First Minister Arlene Foster, led the design of the scheme in question and has refused to stand down while an investigation is carried out.

Martin McGuinness, the Deputy First Minister, Leader of Sinn Féin, former IRA-commander in Derry, and architect of the fragile peace process, simultaneously resigned his post due to ill-health, bringing an end to a whole era of Northern Irish politics.

Driving from Dublin, up the M1. West of Drogheda, just before the Mary McAleese Bridge, you pass the historical site of the Battle of the Boyne in 1690, on the border of counties Louth and Meath. This was the decisive battle of the War of the Two Kings, between James, the rightful King of England, though Catholic, and William of Orange, Protestant usurper.

Arguably the single most important event in English history since the Battle of Hastings in 1066, it would also have enormous repercussions for Ireland. William defeated James, and established the rudiments of constitutional monarchy and parliamentary democracy. However, it would also see the introduction of anti-Catholic penal laws.

Just north of this you pass Mellifont Abbey, a Cistercian abbey founded in 1142. This was the location of the signing of the Treaty of Mellifont in 1603, when Hugh O’Neill, the last of the Gaelic chiefs, capitulated at the end of the Nine Years’ War. It was also William’s headquarters during the Battle of the Boyne.

As the North approaches, the terrain becomes somewhat hillier. I crossed the border just north of Dundalk, through a winding gap in green hills. Actually, you cross the border three times. A small corner of the United Kingdom cuts into the left lane of the motorway for about ten yards at Dromad. So you cross into the UK only to cross back to the Republic a few seconds later.

A bit further up, the N1 officially becomes the A1. A sign says: Welcome to NORTHERN IRELAND. The green road signs in English and Irish become green road signs in English alone. Distances change from kilometres to miles.

Otherwise, you might as well be in the same country. Except you’re not. It’s one island, two jurisdictions. In the North, the Head of State is Queen Elizabeth II, not President Higgins. The currency is sterling, not euro. Gone, though, are the customs controls. Gone too are the military checkpoints — for now, at least. A soft border, indeed.

I turned onto the A28 for Armagh. Here were the first signs of tribal identity: Union Jacks flying high on flag poles outside housing estates, some old, weathered, and torn. The first election posters were visible coming into Armagh: William Irwin of the DUP, Justin McNulty of the SDLP. The local police station is so heavily fortified that it looks more like a forward operating base in Afghanistan. Nearby, there’s a sign advertising CELTIC MINDFULNESS.

Just beyond Armagh, you hug the border travelling west towards Auchnacloy and Omagh, passing into COUNTY TYRONE. I spot another poster, DUP: 1. MORROW 2. FOSTER.

Omagh, Co. Tyrone. I decided to stop here and have a look around. The first thing you notice, driving in, is the number of church steeples in the distance. In front of Tyrone County Hall, directly opposite an Orange Lodge, there’s a big Sinn Féin placard: RESPECT HONESTY INTEGRITY. R-H-I: it’s not an accident that this is the same acronym as the renewable heat incentive scheme. I stopped near the Bus Station for some breakfast, and some coffee. The radio was on in the background: discussing Rory McIlroy’s game of golf with President Trump. Afterwards I made my way in to the town, looking for the courthouse.

In 1998, the “real” IRA split from the “provisional” IRA over the prospect of peace, and declared their intentions by detonating a bomb on the corner of Market Street and Dublin Road. The target was the courthouse, but the bombers couldn’t park close enough. Warnings were issued, but misunderstanding led the police to evacuate the area around the courthouse, inadvertently pushing people towards the bomb. Twenty-one innocent people died that day: Catholics, Protestants, children, a pregnant mother, Spanish tourists. It was one of the worst atrocities of the Troubles. The “real” IRA went so far as to issue an apology, and soon declared a ceasefire.

Nowadays the militarised courthouse has a metal cage surrounding the side entrance. Behind the courthouse, you can walk around to Omagh Sacred Heart Catholic Church. On the same street, further down the hill, there’s the Church of Ireland St. Columba’s, Omagh Methodist Church, and the Trinity Presbyterian Church. This is one aspect of Northern Ireland in microcosm: an armoured courthouse surrounded by quarreling houses of worship.

Just past Omagh is Strabane. And it’s just beyond Strabane that you start seeing signs for Londonderry. One of them read: Londonderry. “London” had been maliciously scratched out.

Derry’s calm River Foyle flows from Strabane, from the confluence of the rivers Finn and Mourne. The Border between North and South is also a tributary of sorts, flowing into the Foyle at Strabane, and following it’s course naturally until Magheramason, where it changes its direction suddenly, veering west into Donegal and circumscribing the city of Derry, thus severing it from the Republic.

So: you follow the road, which follows the border, which follows the river. The green rolling hills prevent you from seeing the river until you’re quite close to the city, but then it comes into view, just below the road. A tree-lined still grey river, reflecting Autumn colours in Spring, which widens on its approach to the sea. You pass a place called New Buildings, Union Jacks on display. Then you come level with the river, and cross the double-decker Craigavon Bridge into the city centre.

Derry City. It’s quite a pleasant city. A totally different place to the Derry of old. John Steinbeck, who visited in 1953, called it “a dour, cold city” with “dark, angular buildings and uncrowded streets.” Paul Theroux, who came in 1982, thought it “lovely and familiar” from a distance, but “frightful” up close:

Some Ulster towns inspired fear the way a man with an ugly face frightens a stranger — their scars implied violence. Derry was a scarred city of broken windows and barricades; it was patterned with danger zones, and every few blocks there was a frontier: the Waterside, the Bogside, the Creggan, and all the disputed territories among them.

Derry is the only remaining completely intact walled city in Ireland and one of the finest examples of a walled city in Europe, though not as spectacular as Valetta. The walls are slightly more than ten metres wide at their thickest, and run for about one-and-a-half kilometers. There are four gates, serviced by four internal roads which join at right angles in the centre, known as the Diamond.

The walled city is hidden behind a modern shopping centre, visible only when you walk up Newmarket Street, or go around to the Bogside, the nationalist area. There the walls of the city intimidate from high up on the hill.

Derry is fixed permanently in the imagination of Ulster Protestants because of the notorious Siege of Derry in 1689. The doors of the city were sealed by thirteen apprentice boys upon hearing news that the Catholic King James was en route. King James laid siege to the city for 105 days, starving the people, and reducing them to eating horses, dogs, and rats, until they were relieved by forces loyal to the Protestant William of Orange. Thousands died, mainly of disease. William would go on to reign as one half of William and Mary.

Conventional wisdom, and an “educational” video at the Siege Museum in Derry, has it that William brought “civil and religious liberty” to the British Isles. This is certainly true, in a sense. King James was a believer in the Divine Right of Kings, and an ally of the autocratic King Louis XIV of France. However, it was James who made the declaration of indulgence, otherwise known as liberty of conscience, in 1687, a first step towards the freedom of religion. Indeed, the Patriot Parliament, which met in Dublin for the first and only time in 1689, granted full freedom of worship and civic and political equality for Roman Catholics and Dissenters. And yet, the indulgence also reaffirmed the king as absolute, so these pronouncements depended on the will of the monarch. (They were also made with a view to reinforcing support for his reign amongst Catholics and Dissenters.)

On the other hand, William, who desired freedom of worship for his Catholic subjects, was over-ruled by his Protestant Parliament, who would go on to introduce a large number of anti-Catholic penal laws, many of which would remain on the statute books until Catholic emancipation in 1829. These penal laws also affected Presbyterians, so many of those who fought for religious liberty were denied it by their fellow Protestants. So, at best we can say that William brought civil and religious liberty to most, or even just to many.

Nevertheless, the Protestant victory at the Siege of Derry, in which the brave Protestant forces held out against the despotic Catholic army of King James, is celebrated down to this day, and alongside the anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne on the 12th July, is a big part of the Northern Irish calendar. These 12th July parades, though, have long been viewed by Catholics as provocative and sectarian.

Much of this Siege history is still to be seen in the city: a slightly partisan history of events can be found at the Siege Museum, the original cannons remain on top of the old city walls, but much is on display at St. Columb’s Cathedral, including the original gate locks.

Originally built in 1633, St. Columb’s was the first cathedral built after the Reformation in the British Isles and the first non-Roman Catholic cathedral built anywhere in Europe. IF STONES COULD SPEAKE, THEN LONDON’S PRAYSE SHOULD SOUND, WHO BUILT THIS CHURCH AND CITTIE FROM THE GROUND is the inscription on one of the stones in the porch.

I was met at the door by the caretaker, a friendly but effusive gentleman eager to lecture about history and to quote from the Bible. He talked and talked and talked as if his life depended on it: about King William, the cathedral, Dublin, the Siege. He seemed determined to have a captive audience, even if that meant actually keeping them physically captive.

“That’s the mortar shell which King James used to send the terms of surrender over the walls in July 1689,” he said, pointing to a hollow cannon ball on a pedestal.

“The Governor, George Walker, read the terms inside and then came into the cathedral to consider his response. He opened his bible for inspiration, which we have on display, and he happened upon Psalm 37:

Fret not thyself because of evildoers, neither be thou envious against the workers of iniquity. For they shall soon be cut down like the grass, and wither as the green herb. Trust in the Lord, and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed.”

Reverend Walker took from this that he ought to resist. Thou shalt be fed, indeed, I thought, but rats? The good Reverend’s bible is on display in the Chapter House, open at Psalm 37. He should have kept reading, though, because Psalm 37 continues: But the meek shall inherit the earth; and shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace. The victorious Protestant settlers were anything but meek, and peace would have to wait another three-hundred years.

Derry is fixed forever in the minds of Catholics because of the Troubles. In the 1960s, the city of Derry was governed by a Council, but only those who owned property, or were legal tenants, had any right to vote in local elections, and, in any case, the electoral areas were gerrymandered to ensure a constant Protestant majority. This in a city where sixty-seven per cent of the population were Catholic. Furthermore, it was the Council that had control over housing, so they used this authority to further concentrate power.

In March 1968, the Catholics of Derry formed the Derry Housing Action Committee, and joined with the broader Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association, in taking direct action against widespread discrimination. In August 1969, at the annual Apprentice Boys’ march, trouble broke out on the junction of Waterloo Place and William Street, ultimately escalating into the Battle of the Bogside. Two days later, James Chichester-Clark asked Prime Minister Harold Wilson to deploy British troops on the streets of Derry: the first direct intervention of the British government in Ireland since partition in 1921. The Troubles had begun.

The soldiers were generally welcomed by the Catholics of Northern Ireland as a neutral force in an increasingly sectarian conflict. The UVF, a Protestant paramilitary force, had emerged in 1966. The Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC), the national police force, was overwhelmingly Protestant and openly sectarian. Meanwhile, the overtly-Marxist IRA, which had been relatively inactive since the Border Campaign ended in 1962, were increasingly viewed as ineffective, as the leadership was deeply reticent about participating in sectarian killing. This led to the formation of the “provisional” IRA, which broke off from the “official” IRA in 1969. The Provos began their targeted bombing campaign in 1971.

Things went from bad to worse with the introduction of internment without trial in August 1971. The British Army arrested 342 people, all Catholics suspected of IRA membership. During these raids, the Army managed to kill 11 innocent civilians, all Catholic, in the so-called Ballymurphy Massacre. Then, in January 1972, at a march in Derry protesting internment, the British Army killed another 14 Catholic civilians. This would become known as Bloody Sunday. The aforementioned Martin McGuinness was second-in-command of the IRA in Derry on this fateful day. As a direct result, membership of his organisation increased dramatically.

The Northern Ireland Parliament at Stormont was suspended on 30th March 1972, and Westminster instituted Direct Rule. Then, in July 1972, the British government held secret talks with the IRA. The republicans, rejecting partition, believed that the whole people of Ireland should decide their collective fate, and demanded a British withdrawal and the release of republican prisoners. Needless to say, the meeting did not go well.

The following year the Sunningdale Agreement was introduced with the support of the moderates: the Ulster Unionist Party (UUP), the Social Democratic and Labour Party (SDLP), and the cross-community Alliance Party. The IRA were not involved. This would provide for power-sharing, but also for a Council of Ireland, which included the government of the Republic. Unsurprisingly, the new dispensation lasted all of one year.

It was brought down by unionists striking in opposition to the all-island Council of Ireland. On the third day of the strike, unionist paramilitaries bombed Dublin and Monaghan in the Republic of Ireland, killing 33 civilians in the deadliest attack of the Troubles.

Ian Paisley, staunch unionist, firebrand preacher, and eventual champion of the peace process, came to prominence at this time; his Democratic Unionist Party (DUP) would eventually overtake their rival Ulster Unionist Party (UUP) through dogged opposition to Sunningdale, and to the Anglo-Irish Agreement of 1985, and the Good Friday Agreement of 1998.

Astonishingly, the DUP’s Ian Paisley and the IRA’s Martin McGuinness, once diametrically opposed, would become known as the “Chuckle Brothers,” close colleagues as First and Deputy First Minister, but also warm friends, when power-sharing was eventually established in the wake of the Good Friday Agreement.

The famous murals of Derry, popularly referred to as the People’s Gallery, tells part of this story through street art. They are the work of the Bogside Artists, brothers Tom and Will Kelly, alongside Kevin Hasson; three men who lived through the worst of the Troubles, and wished to document their experiences for all to see.

I walked around to the Bogside, the nationalist part of Derry, passing a busy outreach centre for former republican prisoners, EX-POP OUTREACH PROGRAM stenciled out front.

The murals are all along Rossville Street; the place still full of atmosphere. There were dissident stickers all over: STORMONT MUST GO, END BRITISH RULE. Solidarity with the Palestinians was also evident, an old poster reading: FREE BILAL KAYED.

Having inquired at the Visitor Information Centre about pubs in the city, and having been told under no circumstances to go to the Bogside Inn, I decided to go for a pint of porter in the Bogside Inn.

The place looked closed from a distance, and not exactly inviting, but it was warm and bright on the inside. The staff were friendly, though wary, and it was busy: Ireland playing France in the Six Nations.

There were photographs of the Troubles framed on the walls: kids throwing stones at soldiers; soldiers taking cover behind a wall, Join the IRA graffitied in the background. There are also quotes, mainly from Brendan Behan, a solid IRA man: There are no strangers here, only friends you haven’t met yet; and the best of the bunch: I was court-martialled in my absence, and sentenced to death in my absence, so I said they could shoot me in my absence.

Over my pint, I had some time to reflect. The UK and Ireland joined the EU together, in 1973. There’s no doubting the effect this had in moving towards peace. On my walk around, I had noticed a considerable number of signs announcing EU funding for all sorts of projects all over Derry: at every one of the museums, but also at the Peace Bridge, and elsewhere.

Brexit represents a significant challenge to all of this progress. And with the prospect of a second referendum on independence for Scotland, the break-up of the Union is a distinct possibility. This would be a significant challenge for the unionist community in the North. Among nationalists, there’s also renewed talk of a United Ireland. How all of this will play out over the coming months and years is anyone’s guess. How it will affect the seamless border with the Republic is also a big question mark.

I just hope that the onward march of peace is not stopped in its tracks.

#derry

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