#Tree surgeon cork

[heritagetreecareltd]

Tree Pruning Cork | Professional Tree Surgeon Cork

Looking for Tree Pruning in Cork? Look no further than Heritage Tree Care, the ultimate solution for all your tree surgeon needs. Our team of skilled professionals specializes in providing top-notch tree removal services, ensuring the health and safety of your trees. With our expertise and commitment to quality, you can trust us to handle all your tree pruning requirements with utmost care and precision. Say goodbye to overgrown branches and hello to a beautifully maintained landscape with Heritage Tree Care.

[northern-passage]

Hey could you gimme a uh... "dressed" from the 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 & 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 prompt list... perhaps with an injured Lea?? Or "lean" would also be lovely 💜💜 Thank you you're amazing!!

"Can you stand?"

"Yeah… just give me a minute."

Lea ignores you as you hover over them. They have their eyes closed and their head bowed, taking a few deep breaths as they slowly push themselves onto their hands and knees.

You crouch down in front of them, and they open their eyes just to give you a look.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"I said just give me a minute."

You purse your lips as Lea slowly eases back to sit on their heels. They grab at their side, suddenly hunching forward a bit as their face contorts in pain.

"Lea," you move closer, put your hand on their arm to keep them from toppling back over.

You can tell they're hurt bad when they don't push you away.

"Give me a minute," they say again through gritted teeth.

Your hand tightens around their arm, and they bow their head again, but you can see how pale they're getting, their dark eyes losing focus, and you can feel their weight shift as they start leaning into you.

"Okay," you huff, dropping to your knees to catch them and stop you both from falling over into the snow.

You sit for a minute, Lea struggling to stay conscious, and you quickly look over them - and you're only more concerned when you can't see any obvious injury.

"Come on, Lea," you say, lifting their arm up and wrapping it around your shoulders before looping your own arm around their waist. You brace yourself before standing, grunting under their weight and wobbling a bit from your own injuries.

Lea's arm tightens around you, and their head rolls to the side as they peer into your hood.

"Sorry," they mumble.

You don't respond, too preoccupied with putting one foot in front of the other and making sure neither of you collapse.

Thankfully, the horses aren't far, and you whistle loud through the trees, calling both of them over, trotting through the snow and peering at you curiously.

You approach Gambit cautiously, though with Lea's arm slung over your shoulders he doesn't try to bite at you, and you're able to get to Lea's potion belt before he can change his mind. You and Lea both stagger over to the nearest tree, and you do your best to ease them back to the ground, dropping hard onto your knees beside them.

"Which one is it?" you ask, pulling various potions out of their little leather pouches.

Lea feebly points one out for you.

This will keep them together at least until you can get to a surgeon or a healer. You trust their potion more than yourself, especially with what you can only assume is an internal injury.

You sidle up close next to them, roughly taking the back of their head in your hand while you pull the bottle's cork free with your teeth. You lean them back, lift the potion to their lips and help them drink.

Lea splutters a bit, and you pull back, tilting their head forward as they cough painfully.

Your hand stays at the nape of their neck, and you find yourself hesitating to let go, your thumb drawing slow circles through their hair, damp with sweat and snow.

They close their eyes at the touch, their frantic breathing slowing a bit as the potion takes effect, and one of their hands blindly reaches out to grab a fistful of your shirt, white-knuckling as Lea pulls you close.

"Alright?" you ask gently. They open their eyes, and you can still see the pain there, in their furrowed brow, but they nod before tucking their face against your shoulder, their breath hot on your throat.

Your thumb keeps drawing circles.

You set the potion aside, propping the bottle up in the snow before reaching up to wipe at Lea's mouth. Their brow furrows even more as you wipe the spilled potion from their chin, but they don't pull away, just staring at you with those dark eyes.

Your hand shakes slightly from the leftover adrenaline. (That's what you tell yourself, anyways.)

But Lea suddenly lets go of your shirt, sitting up and grabbing at your wrist, their fingers cold and tight as they pull your hand back. They say your name, a low whisper that ghosts over your knuckles - then they let go and slap your other hand off of them, their eyes flashing before they turn away from you and grab at the nearby tree to pull themself up onto their feet.

You let them stand, staying on the ground for a few more seconds as you recork the potion bottle and stow it back in their belt, along with all the others you pulled out. You avoid their gaze as you help them climb up onto Gambit, and neither of you say anything as you start off through the trees and back to town.

[corktreesurgeons]

Importance of Tree Removal Cork & Maintenance services for Property Owners

Article Source: https://www.corktreesurgeons.com/importance-of-tree-removal-cork-maintenance-services-for-property-owners/

When it comes to maintaining a healthy and attractive landscape, trees play a vital role. They offer a variety of benefits, including providing shade, reducing air pollution, and increasing property value. However, sometimes trees need to be removed for various reasons, such as disease, storm damage, or overgrowth. This is where Tree Removal Cork services play a crucial role.

Tree Removal services are essential for property owners who want to remove a tree safely and efficiently. While removing a tree may seem like a simple task, it can be dangerous and complicated. Without proper training and equipment, accidents can occur, resulting in property damage or personal injury. Cork Tree Surgeons’ have the expertise, tools, and experience to remove trees safely and efficiently.

One of the reasons property owners may need Tree Cutting Cork services is to keep trees healthy and prevent them from becoming a hazard. Trees that are not properly maintained can become diseased or damaged, making them more prone to falling and causing damage to property or injuring people.

Another reason property owners may need Tree Removal services is to make room for new construction or landscaping projects. When a property owner wants to build a new structure or create a new outdoor space, existing trees may need to be removed to make room for the project. Tree Removal services can help property owners safely and efficiently remove trees to make room for new projects.

Tree Cutting in Cork services by Cork Tree Surgeons can also help property owners maintain the aesthetics of their landscape. Overgrown or poorly maintained trees can detract from the overall appearance of a property. Tree Removal services can help property owners remove unsightly or unhealthy trees and keep their landscape looking its best.

In conclusion, Tree Removal Cork and Tree Cutting Cork Services are essential for maintaining a healthy and attractive landscape. They can help property owners remove hazardous or unsightly trees, keep trees healthy, make room for new projects, and maintain the aesthetics of their property.

If you are a property owner in Cork, it is essential to have a trusted Tree Removal and Tree Cutting service provider in your contacts list for any tree-related needs.

Here are some must-tree care tips for property owners.

1)- Watering Newly Planted Trees- To ensure successful growth after planting, it is important to water your trees at specific intervals. During the first 1-2 weeks, it is recommended to water daily to provide sufficient moisture for the newly planted trees.

2)- Mulch and Soil Care- To promote the health of your trees, mulching is an essential practice. Applying a generous layer of mulch around a newly planted tree can provide numerous benefits for its growth. Apart from preventing weed growth, mulch also helps to conserve soil moisture while acting as a protective layer against direct sunlight.

3)- Using Fertilizer- A frequently asked question when it comes to newly planted tree care is whether fertilizer is necessary for their growth. Most trees do not need fertilizers, especially as they grow larger. Studies have found that a tree’s energy during its early establishment period is primarily directed toward root development. Therefore, the use of nitrogen and other fertilizers during this period can actually inhibit root growth instead of promoting it.

4)- Pruning and Trimming Trees- Pruning for tree health involves removing damaged limbs to encourage wound healing and promote new growth. This is especially important after a severe storm. Pruning is also necessary when branches become diseased or infected to prevent the spread of the disease.

Mistakes to avoid – Overwatering, using too much mulch, excessive pruning, and not considering seasonal impacts on tree care.

A professional tree surgeon, such as “Cork Tree Surgeons“, has the experience and expertise to provide the best tree maintenance and care services. By contacting us directly, we can help you enhance the value of your property through our services.

[surgeonscork]

In some instances trees need to be removed. Corktreesurgeons cater for all aspects of removal with a wide range of up to date techniques and equipment, including Crane, Unimog and Rigging gear.

[ianderry]

THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY. How two bike crashes led to a Netflix Documentary.

3 July 2014, approximately 5.30pm in Emsworth, Hampshire I was cycling along the A27 with 2 friends. We were training for a charity bike ride from London to Paris, this was our final ride before the event. We'd done a 70 mile ride and were looking forward to a beer.

I was traveling at about 22mph, suddenly a car turned in front of me and I plowed straight into its passenger door and smashed the window. I lay there in shock unaware of my broken ribs, punctured lung and shattered collarbone but also unaware of  how this moment was going to impact my life.

The surgeon said I was lucky to be alive,  in that split second I’d managed to jump the bike to a slight angle so my right side took all the impact and not my chest.  Five days later with some screws and metal plates holding my collar bone together I left the hospital. I was unable to move my arm for 3 months as they were worried the gaps between the pieces of bone would not join.

I couldn’t work, I couldn't exercise, I became frustrated, depressed, annoyed and angry. Sitting on the sofa watching endless television was so boring, beer o’clock went from 6pm to 5.30pm to 5pm to 4.30pm…you get the picture.

Late in the previous year  I had  received an email from Elina Manninen who was a photographer but also the sister of Johanna Nordblad the world champion Freediver under ice. She had seen some photos I'd done for Red Bull magazine of Guillaume Nery, the world's deepest freediver. Elina wondered if I would be interested in photographing her sister but at the time my state of mind was not right, and anyway,  I couldn’t work.

Fast forward 18 months and I began thinking about the email again. All my life I had wanted to make a short film, and I wondered if Johanna under the ice could be it. I was about to get a small insurance payment for the crash so I thought maybe I could turn the negativity of the accident into something positive. I contacted Elina and asked for more information about Johanna.

She told me Johanna got into ice diving after a bad accident on a bicycle which badly fractured her leg. Three years later the nerve pain was still so bad they discussed amputation. The last resort was cold water treatment which she fully embraced. The nerve pain went but the cold water was addictive and this began her journey under the ice.

Johanna's story was compelling but I was also intrigued how our respective accidents had brought us together. Maybe it was fate.

On the 19th January 2016 I flew to Helsinki to meet the sisters and go to the lake. At arrivals there stood two crazy Finnish women in warm clothes and bobble hats waiting for me. Next I found myself in an old  green transit van sat between these two virtual strangers on my way to the lake two hours outside of Helsinki. The windscreen wipers didn’t work and there was no heater. As we got closer to the lake it got so cold the INSIDE of the windscreen started to ice freeze!

Then the most incredible moment.

We stopped and all I could see was white snow, it seemed to go on forever. For some reason it didn’t click with me that this was the lake, my brain was telling me it was a field as it was surrounded by trees. Then the penny dropped, this was the snow on top of the ice below. It was epic. We got out of the green van and the silence was incredible. All we could hear were ourselves, our breath, our clothes rubbing, the crunch of the snow.

Johanna opened the van doors and pulled out the sled and the ice saw and said follow me. We walked onto the snowy lake, my feet went down deep onto the hard ice below. She then started drilling three holes with a huge ice cork screw in the 40 cm ice. Using the ice saw she cut from one hole to another and pushed the ice down to displace it. For the first time I saw the clear  cold water below in this perfect triangular hole. 

Unbeknown to me she had a dry suit in the van and asked if I wanted to go under the ice. It was actually beginning to get dark but I thought well I can’t back out now! So on went the dry suit, she attached a torch to my head and a rope around my wrist so she could pull me out if necessary. (photos below)

So here I am holding my breath under 40 cm of ice with two strange women and a rope around my wrist for safety!

I wasn't using scuba tanks. I was just holding my breath but what I saw under there was incredible, I knew I had to make the film.

When I got out the air temperature was so low the water on my suit began to freeze so the girls got me to the van and wrestled me out of the suit before it totally froze solid.

I flew back to London the next day, my head full of ideas and inspiration. I wanted to do this properly so I assigned myself a ‘huge’ budget of 5k!  (Don’t tell my wife but it ended up closer to 16k)

I met with Jonathan Milward, an amazing storyboard artist and we created the film shot by shot. His drawings were so accurate to my vision and for the first time I could see exactly what it would look like.

Elina and Johanna had a friend who is an underwater cinematographer,  Teemu Liakka. He agreed to shoot it for me and we also had a drone and an underwater safety team. How did I possibly think I could do this for 5k!

Anybody who knows me knows if I make up my mind then that’s that. The costs were rising but so was my excitement to start filming.

5th March 2016 and we are all staying in a house together in a snowy wilderness.. The next morning we made our way to the lake to set up for the first underwater day. I had booked three days in for diving shots and another for drone. We had to hire a mobile sauna so Johanna could warm up between dives. She was incredible, so natural in the water. She wanted her movement to be perfect so she kept repeating things under the ice before she was happy. She would come up between takes and her lips were blue but she kept going.

On the final day the lake looked incredible. I remember the drones first flight as it came over the trees and I knew this was going to be a special morning. Johanna had to walk miles with her sled as we had to keep her in snow without her own footsteps.

I then flew back to London with the material and my friend Joe Walton and I started the edit. Another friend Howie Saunders composed the music and Digital Light did the grade.

Then it just sat there. I really didn’t know what to do with it. I was busy being a photographer, I’d enjoyed the whole process but had no idea what to do with the film. Then I discovered an online film sharing site called Nowness. They loved the film and on 1 September 2016 it went online. It quickly got some interest with great reviews and I began getting enquiries from agents to represent me as a director. I wasn’t a director, I had made one film for fun but who was I to argue! I signed with a great production company called Archers Mark.

Then National Geographic contacted me and wanted to use my film for their Directors Showcase. The last I heard it had passed 80 million views.

This is now where I have to pinch myself. In 2019 we had a discussion with Netflix about expanding the film to tell a wider story of Johanna and cover her attempt to beat not only her own world record but the mens too. Steve Jamison from Archers Mark and I went and shot a teaser for them in Finland with some interviews and some ice footage.Elina’s role quickly became pivotal to the story and so things began to develop. We put an edit together and presented it and they loved it.

So here I was directing a Netflix original documentary all because I’d used some money from a bike accident to make a film for fun. It was a dream come true.

We started filming in March 2020 and thought it would be out later that year. While we were filming with  a full crew in Northern Finland the news started coming through about Covid. Countries were threatening to shut borders so we had to abandon and return home. I’ll never forget the empty airport in Helsinki and the empty plane with just a handful of passengers.

To be honest during that time I never thought the film would get finished. In my head my film was hanging by a thread. Would Netflix want us to go back? Would they find the money to go again? They were dark days anyway so this uncertainty didn’t help. Here I was back on the sofa watching the TV in limbo, just like back in 2014.

A year to the day we had fled Finland we flew back. God knows how but somehow our Executive Producer Jo-Jo Ellison had managed to get us there during another lockdown and with special permissions and covid protocols we were able to try again.

On May 3rd 2022 the film Hold Your Breath - The Ice Dive finally came out. I'll say no more than that but if you watch it you'll see it wasn't easy.

I'd like to thank Johanna and Elina and our amazing  crew for everything they did to make this happen. It’s a beautiful film about two sisters trying to do something that no human has ever done. It's been emotional at times and there have been tears but it's been the best thing professionally I've ever done.

I wonder if I should go and knock on the door of the guy who knocked me off my bike and thank him!

First time I had met Johanna, January 2016

What am I doing?!

No pressure.

[lady-wallace]

Whumptober Day 20: Not in Kansas Anymore (JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure)

Day twenty: “Toto, I have a feeling we’re Not in Kansas Anymore”

Prompts used: Lost, Field medecine 

Fandom: JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure (Golden Wind) 

Mista whump today! (And Dadbbacchio)

If you guys have been enjoying my stories, you can support me on Ko-fi ^_^

Read on Ao3

Read on FF.net

~~~~~~~

Abbacchio stared at the 'no signal' symbol on his mobile phone and snapped it shut with a curse, refraining from throwing it into the woods for all the good it was.

He and Mista had gone on what was supposed to be a simple mission. Stop two drug dealers who were working out of an old hunting cabin in the woods. Unfortunately, what they uncovered was just part of a larger operation who would probably soon be finding out something was wrong and getting out of the city. He had to call Bucciarati to warn him about it, but there was no signal.

Worse, they had followed one of the dealers to their hideout and were deep in the woods, with no memory of the way out.

Even worse than that, Mista had gotten shot.

Abbacchio glanced over at his companion. The young man was leaning up against a tree, breathing heavily, a hand pressed to his still badly bleeding stomach. His knees were shaking, looking like he was going to fall over any minute.

Abbacchio gritted his teeth. He had to get Mista out of here, back to the golden brat so he could get fixed up, but it looked like that wasn't going to be happening any time soon.

"Nothing?" Mista asked breathlessly.

"No," Abbacchio growled. "But I should be able to use Moody Blues to retrace our steps out of here." He called his Stand out as he spoke and had him rewind about half an hour.

Mista nodded and pushed off of the tree with a grunt, taking a couple steps before he let out a strangled groan, and collapsed pretty heavily to his knees.

"Kid?" Abbacchio asked cautiously. "You gonna make it?"

Mista bit his lip and somehow pushed himself up again, Abbacchio lending him a hand.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just gotta…gotta breathe through it."

Abbacchio glanced at the blood that was seeping from beneath Mista's hand, soaking into his pants. He wrapped an arm around Mista's back as Moody Blues finished the rewind and took Abbacchio's form.

"Alright, hopefully this will work," Abbacchio grunted as they started off.

They'd only been walking for a couple minutes before Mista got way too heavy against Abbacchio's side and stopped, doubling over.

"Abbacchio…I—I gotta stop. I can't keep going anymore…"

Abbacchio paused Moody Blues and looked at the timer. It was probably another fifteen minutes to the road.

Blood was flowing freely from between Mista's fingers. He was losing way too much blood, and Abbacchio didn't think he had fifteen minutes if they didn't try to do something about his wound.

"Look, just leave me here. Get back to the car; call Bucciarati at least."

Abbacchio thought about it for a second, but shook his head. "No. I'm not leaving you out here. There were only two of them out here, but we don't know if more will show up." He glanced at Moody Blues again as the Stand watched him curiously, then back at Mista. "Look, it's only a few minutes back to the cabin. They might have some medical supplies. You think you can at least make it back there?"

"I—I'll try," Mista croaked, and Abbacchio got a firmer hold on him and practically carried him in the opposite direction, recalling Moody Blues again.

The trip back to the cabin wasn't easy. Mista really was suffering and as hard and gruff as Abbacchio might be on the outside, he hating seeing the kids in pain. His kids. He might find Giorno annoying, but he would give anything to have the golden brat here now so he could heal Mista.

Now he was going to have to do it the old-fashioned way.

They made it back to the cabin and Abbacchio kicked in the door. The two bodies were lying out back where they'd made their final stand, but the place was a mess. Abbacchio cringed as he dragged Mista to the back and lowered him as carefully as possible onto a dirty cot. He supposed it was better than nothing.

"I'm sorry 'bout this," Mista whispered weakly.

Abbacchio cursed and crouched. "It's fine. It's not your fault. Let me look at it?"

Mista swallowed hard and carefully peeled his shaky hand away from his wound.

Abbacchio grabbed his wrist to help, and his eyes widened at how much blood started to flow from the bullet wound.

"We need to slow the bleeding before I can even try to do anything with this," he said, and grabbed Mista's hat off his head.

"Hey!" the younger man protested then cried out in pain as Abbacchio pressed it to his wound. He winced. He was sure the hat wasn't clean enough for this, but they didn't have a lot of options. It was better than the grimy blanket from the cot. At least it was Mista's sweat on the hat.

"Keep pressure on this while I see if I can grab some stuff."

He looked around the cabin swiftly and saw a small camp stove which he quickly turned on with a pan of water, then found half a bottle of liquor. He licked his lips. He wished he could justify drinking it, but it would be better as a disinfectant.

Not surprisingly, there were no bandages, but Abbacchio was prepared to rip his coat up if he needed to. No needle and thread either. Abbacchio pursed his lips. This wasn't going to be fun.

He found a lighter, and with that and the hot water, he came over to the cot again, where Mista was weakly trying to put pressure on his injury.

"Find anything good?" he asked.

Abbacchio set the stuff out on the floor and pulled a knife from his pocket. He pulled the tail of his coat around and cut into it before ripping off a good hunk, dipping part of it into the scalding water.

He pressed his lips together. "Well, considering how bad you're bleeding, and since we don't have a lot of options, I'm probably going to need to cauterize the wound."

"Are you freaking kidding me?"

Abbacchio raised his hands. "I don't want to do it either, but it's either that or bleed out. Besides, you're the one who let Fugo fix you up with staples and duct tape once."

Mista winced and paled impossibly further. Abbacchio didn't blame him. It wasn't going to be pleasant. But at least Mista would probably only have to deal with this until they got back to the headquarters and Giorno could heal him properly.

"But first," Abbacchio sighed. "We're gonna have to get that bullet out."

Mista's breath caught in his throat. "How?"

Abbacchio looked down at the knife. "Don't have a lot of options."

Mista's eyes widened and his lip trembled. "Seriously?"

"Mista, come on, this wasn't a through-and-through. If we have to walk back, that bullet needs to come out or there might be more damage."

He swallowed hard, and thunked his head back against the bed. "Okay. Do what you gotta."

Abbacchio bit his lip and nodded. He reached out to pull Mista's hand away from his wound again, and used the scalding rag to clean the blood from his skin. Mista flinched, shifting slightly.

"Easy," Abbacchio murmured. He finished, pulling the rag away and prodding the wound, pulling a soft cry from Mista's throat.

"I'm going to work on getting the bullet out now. Just try to relax."

"Are you freakin' kidding right now?" Mista gasped.

"It'll make it easier if you relax," Abbacchio growled and picked up the lighter he'd found, running his knife through the flame.

"A-Abba…" Mista murmured, blinking up at him. His dark eyes were clouded and dull from the pain. "If I die here…"

"You're not gonna die here, idiota," Abbacchio told him firmly. Mostly, if he were being honest, for his own benefit. He was really no skilled surgeon at all. The little he had learned had been on the job, and in places and situations similar to this. The fact was, they'd gotten lazy with Giorno around. Too dependent on his healing abilities. So, when things like this happened, they seemed like the end of the world.

The knife cooled, and Abbacchio took a deep breath. He couldn't put this off another minute.

"Okay," he said and pushed Mista's sweater further out of the way before inserting the knife into the bullet wound.

Mista instantly tensed up, crying out, and grasping the edges of the cot. "Merda!" he gasped.

"Hey, I said easy," Abbacchio told him, pressing his free hand to Mista's chest, trying to keep him still, leaning his elbow against Mista's thigh. "If you don't stay still I might damage something. Don't make me tie you down."

Mista squeezed his eyes shut, breathing deeply through his nose, hands clenched around the sides of the cot until his knuckles whitened. "O-okay. Do it."

Abbacchio took his blessing and shifting the knife in the wound carefully, trying to find the bullet.

Mista let out a strangled cry, twitching, tears leaking out from under his closed eyes. Abbacchio tried to ignore it. Get the bullet out. That's what he needed to do. Don't think about who it was. That it was one of his kids…

The knife struck something metallic and he huffed a sigh of relief. "Almost got it," he said. He twisted the knife and Mista screamed, but the bullet came up and he forced it back through the hole, snagging it and tossing it aside.

Mista whimpered, eyes fluttering as his head lolled to one side.

"Hey," Abbacchio snapped, reaching out to pat Mista's cheek briskly. "Stay with me right now, okay?"

"S'rry," Mista murmured.

Abbacchio was getting more worried. Mista was shivering now, and it wasn't that cold out here. He was probably going into shock too, along with everything else. Abbacchio would have to work fast. He pressed the cloth back over the wound, stopping the fresh flow of blood that was trickling over Mista' side.

"Just a little more. I need to close it." He reached for the bottle of liquor, and yanked the cork out with his teeth.

Mista's eyes fluttered. "Bruno's gonna be mad."

"Shut up, stronzo. This is for you," Abbacchio growled and removed the cloth, pouring the liquor liberally over the wound.

Mista howled. He curled up onto his side as Abbacchio hurriedly pressed the cloth back against the wound and gripped Mista's shoulder.

"Mista! Hey," he said, rubbing his shoulder before moving to the back of his neck, trying to get the boy to relax. "You need to lie flat. Come on. Let's get this over with."

Mista shook his head, tears streaming out of his eyes. "Oh god, it hurts," he whimpered.

Abbacchio bit his cheek to bleeding as he cupped Mista's face gently, running his thumb through the tears. "Hey, easy. You're gonna get through this. Hear me? We just gotten get this closed up, and get back to the road so we can get you home for Giorno to heal up, okay? Just gotta keep you from bleeding out until then."

Mista took several gasping breaths before he calmed slightly, and Abbacchio ran a hand through his short hair before gently pushing him flat.

He took his knife up again, and flicked the lighter on, waiting until the blade got hot.

He glanced at Mista, barely conscious and pressed his lips into a thin line.

He stood and swung one leg over the cot before sitting on Mista's legs, his other hand pressing firmly into his chest to keep him as still as possible. It wouldn't do for him to flail right now.

"W-what are you doing?" Mista murmured.

"Just a little more, then we're done," Abbacchio told him and unceremoniously pressed the blade to the wound.

Mista screamed, and bucked under him but Abbacchio sealed the wound, choking on the smell of burning flesh, then pulled the knife away.

Mista was limp underneath of him now and he swiftly got off the younger man and crouched, cupping his face between his hands and peeling up one eyelid.

"Mista?" he asked.

No reply.

Abbacchio cursed, and turned to ripping up the rest of his coat tail, making bandages, which he tied around Mista's middle and then simply got his arms under Mista and hefted him up with a grunt.

Mista was not small and light like Narancia or Giorno, but Abbacchio would carry him anyway.

"Moody Blues," he said, and his Stand reappeared. "Resume the replay."

He followed his Stand to the road with his precious burden, and didn't just find the car he'd come in, but another.

"Abbacchio!" Fugo's voice called and Abbacchio looked up to see him and Giorno rushing toward them

"What happened?" Giorno demanded.

"He got shot, but the dealers are dead," Abbacchio said tersely, hefting Mista into the back of the car before climbing in and resting the boy's head on his lap. "Can you heal him?"

"Of course," Giorno replied, instantly falling into action.

Abbacchio sighed in relief, watching Giorno's Stand heal Mista as Fugo called, presumably Bucciarati, to tell him they had been found.

On the car ride back, Mista groaned and opened his eyes, staring up at Abbacchio.

"Hey…" he croaked. "What happened?"

"Giorno and Fugo came looking for us," Abbacchio told him, squeezing his shoulder unconsciously. "How do you feel now? Giorno healed you."

Mista carefully sat up and pressed a hand to his stomach. "Better. Little sore." He glanced back over at Abbacchio. "Thanks. For what you did."

"I'm sorry I had to, kid," Abbacchio said sincerely.

"You still saved my life," Mista said with a small smile. "I won't hold the method against you."

Abbacchio snorted, but reached out and ruffled Mista's hair. The young man ducked with a growl.

"You do owe me a new hat though."

"I think I could manage that," Abbacchio replied.

[cadviium]

of strange waters and even stranger fish

That morning, perched at the end of the dock, the fisherman had only one thing on his mind: the noon bell in Riceville. An arguably menial and temporary inconvenience, really. Only a few seconds of dull droning echoing across the water. Still, the clock on his wrist was checked almost manically as he flipped his forearm over, back, then over again, watching the minute hand inch steadily closer to the fateful hour. Once that siren went off, it would be over. 

After enough years at sea, you tend to gain a certain understanding of the water, of its inhabitants– both those you should and shouldn’t be aware of– and this man understood with great certainty the finicky and fidgety nature of a coddled fish and the steadfast composure of one not so. 

The marine fish to whom he dedicated several decades were not of the coddled sort. In spite of their stick-splinter bones and lace gills, they endured the pitch and throw of the stir above them unflinchingly, braved the bubbles and fizz of an unsettled ocean. The bestial grating of salt, the cracking of bows and splitting of hulls, mere backdrop to a plodding existence. Vagabonds with aperture eyes that bore witness to treading feet going still, void and unblinking, with nares like slits that could smell the pulpy metallic tang that invited teeth, teeth, and more teeth, they paid no mind to the rubbing of rope and the shearing of scales and the dull glinting of steel. Seawater was lawless and impassive, a briny gnawing of mouth and molars, a collision of gods challenging water with wind, infinity with paper fins, and the fish were too. 

He couldn’t say the same for the water in Riceville. It lapped slow against the spruce pier, bored, lazy, like a pot-bellied dog running its tongue over its own sick, so the fish here were not used to the pitiless thundering of the earth making percussion of their backs. They were only accustomed to a passive suggestion of a wave, a caress in place of a crash, and would respond with alarm to any disturbance beyond that sluggish pull of the water. 

With this came the issue of the noon bell. 

It was a relatively new addition to the town, only implemented when the mayor was informed that time was making a run for it and now needed to be reined back in. That was less than a month ago, not nearly enough time for the fish to acclimate. Those chimes would strike the lake’s face with the ferocity of a blasphemous nun, folding and crimping the surface into a paper fan, combing the depths, pushing the water together, pulling it apart again, braiding it, and it would inevitably send the fish scattering like dropped pills, burrowing in weeds where they could and getting tangled in taut, panicked circles where they could not. So sheltered. So fussy. 

There was something gentle about it for a while, he thought. The fishing pole fit that fit his hand like an old friend, the soft cork of the handle kneaded and compressed until the indents matched his knuckles, his fingers, his fingernails. The repetitive casting and reeling, casting and reeling, and bringing nothing up. With that rhythmic tranquility came possibility, and it was the possibility that made it worthwhile. But now noon was coming. That possibility would flee, fins slashing through the thick calm, and the empty palms of his hands were beginning to ache furiously. 

He had no fish, nothing to present to Gardner and no reason to say, “See? Maybe next time you’ll put down the GameBoy and come with the old man.”

This was his life, baiting, luring, reeling. What would he be if he couldn’t even bring in one panfish? What would he be to Gardner? Not worth the time. The grip on the fishing rod tightened– if only minutely– with that thought. He needed that fish, and he needed it badly. 

His musings were interrupted by a floating object encroaching upon his periphery through a split in the trees. A boat, the first one in a while, carving a triangle into the ripples with tender precision, not lawful enough to be a surgeon, not careless enough to be a criminal. White, white like bleached bone, white like satin moths, white like ladyfish convulsing on an oily deck. The deck of this boat was empty– no oil, no ladyfish, and, oddly enough, no passengers. From what the man could tell, there was no one on the boat. 

“Hey, Murray! Back again?” came from the boat anyways, drawling and defiant towards Murray’s expectations for it. Murray wasn’t shocked. This was usually how things worked around here. Upon closer inspection, the man saw a vague shadow in the captain’s cabin, the bareboned outlines of something that might’ve been a person, but also maybe not, a being of less concrete shapes and more negative space. The fisherman smiled and waved back anyways, hand flicking backward once like he were swatting a gnat; it’d be rude not to. 

“Yessir, just got in,” Murray called back with hands cupped around his mouth, dutifully ignoring the way the boat’s ivory paint sung in the late morning rays like a surfaced pearl, how it made him the greying mothball tucked in the corner of the boat’s closet. 

“You be sure to tell Lauren and her boy hello for me. I haven’t been down to that ol’ farmhouse in quite a while.” 

Don’t worry, he’d be sure to greet the closed doors, the rivets in the wood, the curves and halted twists in the knobs. He’d say hello to the scattered toys strangled in wires like veins, to the empty driveways scrubbed of chalk, to the quiet dinner tables with open seats but spotless plates. He’d raise his hat to the disgruntled elbows and disinterested shoulders and dolly eyes, to the “we’re going into town” and the “we’ll be a few hours late.” 

If the greeting were on the boat’s behalf, would the tension finally leak from their joints, dripping onto the hardwood like spoiled milk? Would the knots in their backs finally be worked into paste? Would he finally feel welcomed? Murray nodded to the boat in a way that was not a promise but could’ve been a confirmation and prayed the boat’s company– or lack thereof– took no notice of how even the boat was better dressed than he.

He wore an offensive orange vest, an unholy brawl of stiff fabric and angry stitches with pockets upon pockets, layered and stacked on top of and under one another like playing cards, so many that not even the man was aware of all their contents. Under the barbed intensity of the vest sagged a tired flannel and graphic t-shirt that read, “The 1968 Plymouth Road Runner: Anything less is just a car.” His first ride. Crashed the beauty into a henhouse in the summer of ‘81 and, evidently, hasn’t gotten over it. Atop his head was hair of a close-cut grey, the sort of grey that screamed couch change, dust bunnies, and other forgotten things. Covering that was a creamy bucket hat, yellowing with age, the brim reduced to patchwork and loose string. While he mourned the majority of his outfit, Murray turned a blind eye to the cap. It was a gift, a dying hat from a young boy to an old man, and he felt no shame in wearing it. 

As the pearly split in the lake continued along its persistent eastward path, the water returned to its unnatural quiet, the dips and splashes of his line and lure lacerating the surface its only note. He was entranced by the coal-black water, the way it smelled like nostalgia, like rotting seaweed fermenting on a prop. The way it rehashed the constant small fry he’d hook from the surface each year, the awareness of something further in the depths, the simultaneous fear of the known and unknown.

Reminiscing was suffocating in the stale, near-noon sun. 

On every horizon stood trees, encompassing and blocking him in like a battalion, especially the dense woods behind him. They didn’t move with the breeze. Birds sat silent in those treetops, indifferent watchdogs with eyes upon eyes upon him. What they were guarding, he didn’t know. Directly behind him, branches cracked, and the dense cloud of dirt and sticks and other mysteries at his back got heavier.

With the boat gone, Murray sat by the water alone. He’d recently noticed no one really swam in the lakes around here, this one in particular. He asked some clerk named Luke about it yesterday, and she’d only muttered something about cleanliness and a chemical spill back in April. A terrible tragedy, really decimated the farming industry this year. She never looked up from the coins on the counter, though she’d already totaled them to eleven-eleven twice.

That must be why the fish were so disinterested. Yes, there was something wrong with the lake. He’d have to explain that to Gardner. It was possible Gardner already knew, and that’s why he’d refused to come; he was the local after all. They could try a different lake tomorrow, perhaps that one near the repair shop. Even as he thought this, an unopened spool of fishing line and a smaller fishing rod still shiny with novelty mocked him relentlessly from the trunk of his car.

His fishing line was sagging in the middle, draped across the surface like stray hair. He reeled, cast, checked his watch again. 11:44.

At 11:53, the birds erupted from the trees behind him, a thick, writhing mass of beating wings and beating hearts. Murray started at the shift in atmosphere, at the sound of air pulsing like dusty rugs shook over a balcony rail, his mouse-trap jaw flinging shut, but then he settled. 

What were a few birds to him? He wasn’t fishing for birds.

 Above him was a sky at war with the crows and the cardinals, the black-backed woodpeckers and black-capped chickadees. They were blind and bumbling in their panic, bodies slamming against tufts, into talons, a collision of comets. 

Murray stared with the indifference of a sea bass as an unlucky few were struck from the sky and sent careening downwards like heavenly pariahs, their feathers spilt ink in the midday sun. The nimblest of birds with bodies sleek as knives– the swifts, the sparrows, the songbirds that didn’t sing– managed to pull up before hitting the water, wingtips razoring their glassy reflections. Fate and physics were not so kind to the bigger birds and their still-fumbling fledglings. Backs, glossy like lacquer, crashed into the tame hills. They thrashed hysterically against their swampy cradle, dotting water across the lake in a constellation, their wings slackened by gravity or drag or maybe just teeth. 

The fishing pole suffocated in Murray’s now-tense fist, but only for a moment; before long, the newfound rigidity in his shoulders drained like stale bathwater, and he nodded twice. Sure, the splashing would have without a doubt scattered the bluegill and the perch and other docile panfish, but it also drew in the more ravenous beasts lurking deep in the weeds with their pin teeth and pincushion jaws. They’d be prettier trophies anyways.

The surviving birds spread through the air like ripples of a different kind, blacks and browns and reds arching across the sky in swells. He watched them go as the last of the drowning birds slipped into the abysmal black of the water, leaden ghosts, all silent and all without purpose, surrounded but alone. 

The birds died like Murray lived.

From beyond the trees, not long after the birds, came a grinding screech like metal peeling against gravel. It lurched in the air, halting and mounting in intensity, a red carpet rolling out in the breeze, and Murray lurched with it, left arm darting outwards as he swiveled towards the woods; the fishing pole followed, skidding its oversized lure along the rocky lakebed. The scream was a heartbeat on its own; it pounded with the floundering desperation of an animal without the mind or lungs or wings to flee, the pace fluttering like a sunken bird, a coddled fish.  

It was distinctly boyish, a noise ridden with gasping pleas and strained vocal cords. That could’ve been Gardner. What? No, it couldn’t have. That didn’t make sense. Pull yourself together. 

Murray’s throat tightened in a vice he hadn’t felt since his hair was full and his spine straight, a vice from a time when the sun ate at his flayed collarbones and torrents rocked his ship with the reckless abandon of a young mother. Back when his hands weren’t as rough as the rope nets they strained against, before the neverending loitering on the ends of piers. Back when he didn’t have to concentrate for the thrill of stinging salt in his eyes and in his nose and in his mouth to manifest itself. 

Somewhere in the claw and bite of the howling, he saw himself. He knew it all too well, that moment when human retreated to animal, when cognition lost itself to the frenzied scrambling of instinct. The sudden absence of your internal organs. The feeling of your ribcage folding in on itself, collapsed at the sternum. The dread that you were about to learn what a hooked fish already knew. The scream-soaked boy in the woods sounded like he was starting to understand.

With great apprehension, Murray studied the trees that stretched from the dirt like witches’ fingers, gnarled and reaching towards blue, and the dark spaces left between them, the roots and limbs that branched out like nerve endings. Despite his being a seaman, he recognized a few certainties about the forest. He knew it was a place that breathed, often in more ways than one. There were lungs hidden in those trees, in the rushing of wind on his neck, in the shuddering of bushes, in the wriggling of larva on rancid meat. He knew it was a place that savored the hot reek of decay, bathed in it. A place that would leer with greedy eyes as you rotted and boiled and pussed, as the ravens ripped and the pigs picked. And he definitely knew it was a place where he did not want to be. 

Even from the dock, Murray smelled the dredging weight of blood painting the dank air. It hung heavy in the heat like a dark curtain flung closed in mourning, a bitter speckling of iron and warmth. He swore he could hear it, too, the dripping onto the dirt and leaves like a metronome in time with the ticking on his watch. Air misted in red really was a horribly sweaty and labored sort of air to breathe.

He took a wary step further from the end of the pier, closer to the beginning of the woods, and the bottom of his boot caught on every snag and splinter in the woodwork. Moving to take another, knee already bent with his foot hovering over the dock, he noticed a subtle resistance in his left hand. A tug on the fishing pole, one that drew the line taut as Murray pulled away but dropped it as he whipped back around, a butterfly’s kiss of a bite. 

In the crashing chaos, he’d nearly forgotten about the fishing pole, about the fish, both having fled to the back corners of his mind, loud children told to go be quiet in their rooms. But, now, they pounced back to the forefront, eager and all-consuming. He had to manually remind himself to breathe. In, out, in, out. Had he done it? A fish? It had to be. In that instant, even after decades of nets, poles, and spears, he forgot how his arms worked. Right then, they were useless rolls of ugly, disjointed meat with bends where bends were not meant to be, and he couldn’t seem to convince his brain to spin the reel handle. 

There was a brief pause in the screaming like it was thinking, and the cavity in the air cowered at the sudden unpredictability. Screaming was expected, foreseeable; silence was not. What followed was a soft shuffling in the leaves, dumb and dragging, nearly misread as the sloshing of the waves. It continued for maybe five seconds, maybe ten. Then a thud. A groan. And the shouting started up again, but it was now a much more wet and guttural thing, the kind of bawling that bubbled in your stomach and shredded your throat. Not just a fearful cry but a doomed one. 

The pole was a train track as it rattled in Murray’s unsteady hand. His mind was razed by a tug of war in which he was the rope, torn between two sides. One: his grandson, hugs, smiles, the smell of vanilla wafting to the living room, the beeping and buzzing of gadgets. The other: skittering eyes, a chest that spasmed with panic, a fight wrought of maw and teeth and willpower. He could tell that fight was made of more than his two hands could blot out. 

Now, Murray may not have been old quite yet, but he certainly was not young, a stalled car at a crossroads between expecting to live and preparing to die, and his body was starting to feel the effects. What good would he honestly be to the boy with his handicapped parking pass and aching knees? 

The boy. Not Gardner, of that much he was sure now. For all he knew, it wasn’t a boy at all. A vague thought made of more smoke than fire surfaced, a memory of a crew, a cry, and a conversation. 

“Them red foxes are sly little bastards,” a deckhand had said. “Sound just like a crying kid.” 

“Nah, mate,” interjected another, spitting a toothpick into the liquid mountains below, “they sound like a kid gettin’ axed to bits.” 

Of course. It was just a fox, red and angry. That’s all. Nothing worrisome about this simple, angry fox. Stop trembling, Murray. Only a fox.

And what was a fox to him? He wasn’t fishing for a fox.

He pulled his cap a little lower over his ears to mask those wails like tires squealing on pavement. There was a jumbled sentence living somewhere in that noise, a radio reporter suffocating under layers of static. It twitched in his head, flickering over the same words again and again. 

“I don't want to die.”

Ears lied. Murray was well aware of this by now. They lied when Gardner called him boring, they lied when they overheard Lauren on the phone– “I love Dad, but I’m tired of being his keeper… yeah, I miss Mom, too.”– and they lied when that damn red fox pleaded for help. Because it was a red fox. A red fox, not a boy, and red foxes do not talk nor beg nor comprehend their own mortality. 

Slowly, carefully, Murray rediscovered the crooks and cables in his arms, trying to redefine them as extensions of himself instead of parasitic appendages he held no liberty over.  He flexed his right index finger at his side, bowed it at the joint. Then his middle finger. Thumb, ring and pinky. Flattened them again. He straightened his left index finger off the rod’s handle, curled it back over the cork, repeated the motion for his thumb and middle finger. Cut a circle in the air with his wrist. Bent both arms at the elbow, extended them forwards. Rolled his shoulders back.

Finally, his right hand was brought up to grasp the reel handle, and he spun it around the axel like the minute-hand of a clock. The fish complied with the dull apathy of a leashed dog, weary and heaving. No struggle. No defiance. No nylon dicing the water as a wire does clay. 

A bulging maggot wriggled its way in between the folds and membranes of his thought process. What if it was not a fish at all? A clump of weed perhaps? It really was awfully still; the absence of that fluttering to and fro, of that pathway spanning an arch as wide as the line allowed, was just as loud as the fox.

Upon a brisk shake of his head, the maggot was muscled from his mind, smearing grease in its wake. No, it was a fish, he assured himself. A lazy one, maybe. One that slumped instead of swam, that floated instead of fled. But a fish nonetheless. 

He could still hear the shriek continuing to build– ragged and cold and full of gaps and breaks where the voice dropped out underneath like thin ice.

Reflected in the water, gazing in wonder at the fiber weaving around the reel, was Gardner’s face. Murray could see the smile through the tide, the square teeth, triangle lips; that, and the regret, the eyes oddly enraptured by wine stains on the carpet after he presented his soon-to-be bounty to the home. In the whirring of the line, he heard Gardner’s apology, the wishing he would've gone, the promises of a future outing, the interlocked pinkies. 

Like a skewered worm, the screaming squirmed in the air until it softened, flickered, a dying lightbulb of a sound. It became much less bright and serrated as the ice thawed to a lullaby of groaning. It was almost worse. What likely wasn’t (but could have been) calling for “someone” melted into what likely wasn’t (but could have been) begging for “anyone.” 

“Please, I don’t want to die alone.” More exhale than words. A trick of the mind.

Reeling, contemplating, he stayed on the dock, occupied by the handsome bottom feeder arrested at the end of his line. A man intoxicated, Murray was trampled by flashing images like a stop-frame film, flares of brown, blue, and grey. What awaited him under that blanket of water? The duck’s bill of a northern pike, green and plagued with white blotching? The prying whiskers of a catfish, stirring up a haze in the loose sediment? With each blink, a new enthralling possibility. Scales, slimy and gold in the sun. A distended belly, all slick fat and gummy flesh, overflowing in his paws. Gills like the underside of mushrooms. Fins unmarred by the curious nibbling of smaller fish.

There was more shuffling in the leaves now. Quicker this time, and quieter. With purpose. Murray heard a sharp intake of air, and in the next moment, it was cut off with a wet squelch, a noise like ramming your thumbs into rotten squash, like stepping on pumpkin guts, the innards squishing through your toes like worms from the damp earth, seeds plastered to your feet with orange syrup and stringy fruit and other sugary rot. The woods went silent again.

The fish’s head broke the surface. 

The stench broke next, reeking of curdled milk left in a hot car, of browning cabbage, of floating carcasses thrown about by the tide. The smell elicited little more than a scrunch of his nose, a possible downturn of his lower lip, but it was the sight of the fish that left him dumbfounded. Muddy and listless and undeniably dead. And not the type of dead that could be confused for slumber. The type of dead prophesied by beetles and gnats, the type that loomed in crumbling crypts, in the deserted rooms in hospital basements, in the soupy broth that marinates coffins. Long dead. Still a fish. Just a fish, just a fish, just a fish.

Swollen leech lips gaped open soundlessly; the beginnings of plants– green, white, and every shade of brown– flowered from the pyramid of silt clogging the space between them. Nothing was where it was meant to be, not even the hook, Murray noted. Not through rubber lips but through the fish’s eye did it tear, leaving it deflated and half-popped from its socket like a displaced joint, all wrong angles and exposed nerves. 

No bite then. He must’ve snagged it off the bottom. Did that still count as catching it? Sure, it did. A tinge of burning crimson alit in his chest, regardless of attempts at dousing the flame. Any fish was better than no fish. 

Neither the sight nor smell deterred him for too long either way– Gardner was waiting for him. Ignoring the slicing pain of nylon in the soft of his palm, he tugged the line upwards by hand until the abdomen was above water. He set the pole down beside him, line still cinched in his right, and leaned over the edge of the dock on his shins, fumbling through the warm water with his left and searching for purchase. Skin brushed against decay, and Murray snatched up both the fish’s wrists in his hand, the texture a strange mix of spongy flesh and thin, ridged plastic. Oh, they were already bound, how convenient. 

Line in the right and limb in the left, he tried to drag the body up onto the pier only to find the skin on its hands coming off in filmy slabs much like slippery gloves. Its hands slithered through his grip and splashed back down in the lake, a sucking pop in the fish’s neck sounding at the added weight on the line still hooked to the crannies of its skull. Wiping the greasy wads on his vest, dulling the orange with stains, he huffed once, like a taunted bull. 

Once more into the fray. 

Resolutely, the fisherman ignored the slush of soapy fat under his fingers as he rediscovered the wrists underwater and grabbed hold again. He arched backward, boots braced against the woodwork, drawing the fish into the sky until it fully broached the surface. More tissue tore off its back in little strips like soaked paper as Murray heaved it onto the dock. 

His catch now fully splayed out along the pier, arms bent in prayer, still joined at the wrist with elbows jutting out to the side, the ankle of one leg tucked behind the knee of the other, Murray stopped for several moments and did nothing but stare at this bulbous, buried thing he had dredged up. The skin was a beast to be in the presence of alone, a collage of rot with pruning green on top and a purple underbelly, spotty like watercolor, the whole body mottled with seeping blisters. Limbs were bloated balloon animals, blown up in cartoony colors. He thought about reaching down and twisting the arm into a purple-green dog, thought about shoving a pin into the fish’s cheek and listening for the pop and sputter of a collapsing inflatable. He did neither of these things.

Adorning the fish’s head were bread-colored curls and an upturned piggy nose weeping a gross syrup, a steady mix of water, blood, and something creamy and clotted that made the air taste of sour butter and sausages gone bad, percolated by mold. There were a few chunks missing here and there: an ear, a toe, various intermediate nuggets of meat. Even so, Murray cast a small blessing out for the meek nature of Riceville fish. Without it, this one would've been picked down to the grit and bone. 

Eventually, his attention turned back to action. With a thumb and forefinger, he pinched the hook at the joint between steel and string, jiggled it a bit, then twisted it from its anchor under the upper bone of the fish’s eye socket. The whole eye came with it, yanking braids of slime and sinew out behind it. 

Moss and milfoil grew from its mouth, taking root in the dirt and decaying gums. It was beautiful in a way, how life existed as a byproduct of decay, but that beauty had no place in a fish. He wrapped his fingers tight around the hollow stems, around the leaves like moth’s antennae, around the clumping earth, then ripped it all out; bits of festering tongue and tiny dandelion incisors came with it, ensnared in the green. Much better.

Though the animal still looked like the type of fish only a shark could love, it was sure sizable, Murray could grant it that. Definitely over a meter, maybe even a meter half? Nothing like the bass and panfish he usually brought in. Plus, the way all its colors came together to paint its smeared portrait was sure to trump even the best of artists. In spite of the circumstances, he couldn’t bar the pool of glee swelling in his chest, dripping down the caverns of his abdomen, spreading like flower petals at dawn. After a morning of bug bites and itchy welts, of a pulsing sun and pounding radiation, he’d done it. Finally. A fish for his grandson. 

The noon bell went off, stampeding over the water, a hum in his ears, a murmur in his ribcage, and the fisherman was all teeth. White, white like bleached bone, white like satin moths, white like dead ladies and dead ladyfish. His fist gripped the fish’s snarled and sodden hair with a shivering enthusiasm even as patches came off in clumps, plastered to the spaces in between his fingers.

He couldn’t wait to show Gardner his catch.

[driveprofessionaluk]

Bark mulch cork is a type of mulch made from the bark of cork trees. It is a brown or reddish-brown color and has a very course texture. It is often used as a top dressing for gardens and landscaping.

[heritagetreecareie]

How a Top-Notch Arborist Can Help You in 8 Different Ways!

Being proactive and looking after your trees has many, many benefits. Multiple too is the types of damage that can be caused if your trees remain unchecked and their care neglected. If you don't know much about tree care, this article will cover a range of topics, explaining some of the different ways arborists can help you with your trees. The topics include tree identification, diagnosing and treating diseases, pest control for trees to help sustain healthy plant life.

To figure out how arborist services can help your property in a variety of ways read on!

8 Benefits of Hiring an Arborist

1. Tree Identification

This is one of the first challenges that you might face. You need to know and identify the different types of trees in your garden. If this is overwhelming then you can always just call an arborist in Cork or Kerry. Arborists are tree experts, and will be able to help you identify which type of tree is in your yard. A trained professional will also be able to guide you on how to proceed with proper care guidelines for each type of tree identified. While identifying the different varieties of trees on your property, sounds like a basic task, it really is important! Trees can grow in all sizes and shapes, so it is important to know how they will scale up as they mature with time.

2. Diagnosing

Once you have identified the type of tree and its location, it is time to start asking questions about its general health and condition. Ask if you should prune it and how often. Find out about the pests that have been identified in the area. Also, whether any necessary treatments have been rendered to stop or prevent any further infestation on your property. If you notice dead branches or leaves, ask your arborist what might be causing it and how can you stop it. The last thing that you woul like to see is unnecessary extra expenses coming out of your pocket, just because of negligent care. If a tree requires urgent attention then call an arborist! It is best to call tree surgeons trained in arboricultural consultancy, ISA certified preferably. Arboricultural consultants will be able to carry to visual tree assessments that correctly diagnose the ailments of your tree. A correct diagnosis, leads to appropriate responsive care. Start right, end right- don’t just hack your trees and hope for the best.

3. Precautions

Your arborist will be able to take precautionary measures that will apprehend tree-related diseases. For example, they may prune the damaged or dying branches and remove dead wood in the canopy. A professional arborist will know what measures one should take to ensure that your tree remains healthy, and secure its continued health for as long as possible. More often than not, neglected trees can harbor pest infestations. Damage to a tree is cumulative- a bad pruning wound can lead to a large-scale pest infestation, which will cause your tree to become structurally unstable and die. Unstable trees can obviously cause damage to your property in the event of extreme weather conditions. It is best to protect your property and call an arborist, if you are worried about your trees.

4. Pest Control

Pests that can bring about a lot of damage to your tree include black ants, termites, chewing insects and wood-boring insects. These insects could be very small in size so you won't be able to notice them until they have caused a lot of damage to your tree. A professional arborist in Kerry or Cork will know exactly how to treat the trees. And also, how much you need to spend for their treatment and maintenance.

5. Insect Management

An arborist will conduct regular assessments of your trees to check whether they have become infested with any type of insect. The difference between pest management and insect management is that the latter deals with invertebrates like butterflies, caterpillars, moths, and snails. Insects are mostly larger in size than pests; but can still cause extensive damage to your trees. Your arborist may advise you to use insect management tools, such as snail traps, as simple tools like this can be a good, undamaging method by which to manage insects.

6. Tree Maintenance

A professional will also be able to offer tips on how you can increase the growth rate of your plants. Basic advice, such as ensuring the correct amount of water is provided, the correct amount and type of fertilizers are applied to your soil. You will have to continue tending to your trees for as long as you have them in your backyard. It is a good idea to keep track of these important things that need regular attention to keep them alive and healthy.

7. Tree Planting

You and your family will always enjoy the services of an experienced arborist, especially when it comes to tree planting. There are certain precautions that you should take when tree planting. It is not simply a decision as to ‘where and what’. A tree must be compatible with its surroundings. When it comes to deciding, it is wise to find out your soil type. Some trees like clay soils, some sand, some are hardy and will grow in anything. It is important that you know your soil, so then you can choose the right trees. A tree planted properly, in the right position, will be a healthy tree. It will be strong enough to avoid diseases and pretty much take care of themselves.

8. Tree Removal

When it comes to tree removal. It is best that you hire an experienced and qualified person for tree removal in Kerry and Cork. Someone who can help you assess the state of your trees and their health. Someone who can tell you if a tree really needs to be removed, or whether you can actually save it. If the tree does need removing, then a certified arborist will be able to do a proper, clean, safe and efficient job of removing them. Better to remove a dead tree than to shoulder the risk and expense associated with a fallen tree – especially an unstable tree that is neighbouring your property.

Heritage Tree Care Ltd. is one of the trustworthy arboricultural companies in Cork and Kerry. It is ISA Certified, the highest certification for tree-care professionals. It is qualified to carry out arboricultural consultancy services, including tree risk & safety surveys, and planning and development surveys. Heritage Tree Care Ltd. have the knowledge, experience, and skill set to handle any of your tree-related problems, safely and efficiently, which will inevitably help you save time and money. You will get all the professional advice you need from the Heritage team, as quite simply, Heritage Tree Care knows what they are doing. Devastated that the last tree surgeons you employed, hacked your trees and made them unsightly? Well don’t worry, Heritage have 20 years of skill, working internationally and within Ireland. Years of highly technical training, that means they will never ever hack your trees. You can rely on them for a customized solution for every problem that you have, depending on what type of tree is being treated. It is always better to employ experts like Heritage to solve your tree problems, rather than trying to do it yourself.

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Site Clearance Cork - Heritage Tree Care Ltd.

Heritage Tree Care Ltd. specializes in professional site clearance services in Cork. Our experienced team utilizes the latest equipment and techniques to efficiently clear land, remove trees, and ensure a safe and clean environment. Contact Heritage Tree Care Ltd. for reliable site clearance solutions that meet your specific needs.

[corktreesurgeons]

Tree felling is the process of cutting down trees for various reasons, such as land and timber management, landscaping projects, or firewood. In Cork, a qualified contractor should be hired to ensure that all tree felling procedures are done safely and responsibly. They should assess the area surrounding the tree before any work is carried out to ensure it will not cause damage or disruption nearby and also follow best forestry practices when removing branches from around power lines, buildings etc. The logs can then be used alongside careful replanting in order to replenish woodlands or harvested appropriately according to local regulations.

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CORK TREE SURGEONS Brooklodge Glanmire Ireland based cork arborist company, serving the people of Cork for 30 years. We to deliver top class services that is helping us in number of satisfied clients increasing every year.

[mercurygray]

Was just wondering- what would Lavinia and Margaret think of each other?

Major La Fille spoilers below - but only really obvious ones.

Margaret was just finishing dusting the bottom shelves of her cabinets when the bell over the door rang, and a pair of fashionably low shoes slipped into the room with the sweep of a silk skirt. She straightened her cap and rose from behind the counter, surprised to see an unfamiliar face - a woman, probably her own age, dressed in the very height of fashion, auburn curls resplendent beneath a very handsomely trimmed bonnet.

“You must be Mrs. Munro,” the stranger said, reticule in hand. “I met your husband at the Danburys’ the other night and mentioned I might be in need of a preparation, while I was in town. He absolutely insisted I come and see you. He said you were the best.” Her eye glanced over the apothecary’s jars in their gleaming rows, the little brass scale on the counter with its appropriate weights.

“My husband is a little biased in his recommendations,” Margaret said with a smile. “Have you a receipt, for your preparation? I can mix it for you here, if you’ve a note of the proportions.”

“Thank you, that’s most kind  - but I’d prefer to mix it myself at home,” she said, taking a good, long look at the back wall of the shop, the willow-ware jars all labeled in Margaret’s neat, steady hand. “Three ounces of chaste-tree, and two of primrose, and…oh, three or four of rosemary. And have you any marigolds dried? I’ve need of three or four ounces, and an ounce of sweet oil - a wash for my hair.”

Margaret nodded, pulling down jars and beginning the process of weighing and measuring, pouring the herbs into paper packets with an expert hand, the oil into a little jar with a corked stopper. She was thinking of what William had said about the Danburys’ party, about who had been there - Judge Whipple, and Mr. and Mrs. Hander, and a woman staying with Mr. Hancock; her husband’s a…a banker, yes, that was her. We talked about Scotland. Montrose, her name was. Lavinia Montrose.

Yes, this was she - hair like flames and eyes a man could drown in. He’d had had a distant look in his eye when he’d said the name. William Munro, she admonished him, and he remembered himself, and kissed her, and that had been an end to it.

But it wasn’t the first time she’d heard the name. “You’re the woman they call the Tigress,” Margaret realized, putting two and two together as she placed the jar on the counter and surveyed her customer with an interested eye.

The name made her client pause. “There aren’t too many people on this side of the ocean who know that name,” the Lady said with a smile. “May I ask how you came to know it?”

Margaret held back a smile, remembering sun-warmed sheets and a man reading naked in bed, explaining to her, when he came across a particular name in the pages of an old copy of Mr. Rivington’s Gazette, why he should warn Washington that Lady L —M— was in New York. A woman too beautiful to be ignored, he’d called her then. Trop Dangereuse. She remembered the shape of his lips, the way his native language dripped off his lips. Why is she dangerous? She makes men give up their secrets. How, she’d asked, smirking at her own daring as Gilbert laid the paper aside and let her know in no uncertain terms the answer.

“A freind,” she said vaguely. The Lady’s lip curled, intrigued by the challenge.

“Well, then your freind was either a British officer or a foreign one,” she judged cannily. “There were plenty of girls in Philadelphia and New York willing enough to trade sides for a handsome red coat, but I’m sure they didn’t marry Continental surgeons after the war… so it would have to be one of the Army’s allies from abroad, then.”

Her eye fell on several framed prints hanging on the back wall of the apothecary, a profile of General Washington, hand-tinted to give a more life-like effect, one of the engravings of the Congress that everyone seemed to be printing now - and a third, small image, a little foxed in its frame. “Is your husband a devotee of the French?” she asked, stepping a little closer to admire the man in the uniform of the Garde Nationale.

“My husband treated the Marquis at Brandywine,” Margaret said, entirely truthful. “He is a great admirer of his work in France.” She didn’t say how much her heart ached when he’d hung the picture, how much she trembled when he would tell people at parties that his wife had nursed the Marquis de Lafayette through his famous wound, a feat that had doubtless moved his heart towards aiding the American cause as a stunning example of the American womanhood such aid would save.

“The Marquis has done some amazing things,” Lavinia conceded. “I met him as a much younger man at Versailles. Tall, even then. And that hair! The Queen made fun of him for his hair. Thankfully his fame brought it back into fashion,” she said with a smile, touching her own auburn locks with a rueful smile.

At that very moment the curtain from the back room flashed open, and an imp of seven ran through it, hair flying in all directions. “Mama-mama-mama, can I -”

“Gilbert Munro, you know better than to interrupt,” Margaret nearly shouted without thinking. Her son stopped, knowing that he was, in fact, in the wrong, and looked down at his shoes repentantly.  He disappeared into the back room much slower than when he came, and she took a moment to compose herself, before realizing that her customer was smiling again.

“Your son?” Lavinia asked. “What an excellent name. Gilbert.” She said it in the French manner, Jee-bear, and Margaret could not help but stare. “Pretty hair - he must get it from his father.” Her eyes were full of mischief now, the secret almost out. Margaret’s hair was still dark beneath her cap, but she had surely noticed, last night at the Danburys’,  that William Munro’s hair was black as coal- and her eldest’s son’s curls as coppery as a kettle. “I seem to remember someone telling me you were a nurse yourself, Mrs. Munro. Was that how you met your husband? Treating men at Brandywine?”

Margaret remained silent, and Lavinia smirked. Judge me, if you like, Lady Lavinia. I didn’t go to bed with him for any coin you’d recognize. “It was three ounces of the marigold that you wanted, wasn’t it?” Margaret said resolutely, returning to the jar. “And motherwort, as well?” She fixed Lavinia with a cold calm of her own. Two can play at liars dice, Lady Lavinia, and I know when two and two add to five. Chaste-tree and evening primrose, and marigold for her hair - I wasn’t with the army for six years to not come out knowing what herbs a woman takes to get rid of a child.  She’ll want motherwort, if she wants it done quickly.

“I’m not sure - does it work?” The meaning behind her words was clear.

“When you take it,” Margaret replied evenly. Go on, she silently dared her. Ask me why I didn’t.

But Lavinia only smiled. “Excellent. I’ve a meeting in New York next week - some business of my husband’s. I should hate to leave this to the vagaries of the tradesmen there. I’d much rather leave my custom with a woman who knows her business.” She opened her purse and laid a single coin on the counter - a gold guinea, more money than Margaret was likely to see in a whole day. More than triple the cost of the herbs - a bribe, then? Such mortal drugs I have - but Mantua’s law is death to he that utters them.

“A pleasure to serve you, madam,” Margaret Munro said shamelessly, slipping the guinea inside her pocket.

The Lady nodded, took her purchases and left. Margaret watched her through the window,  giving one of her famous smiles to a pair of men outside, their appreciative looks as she passed on plain view through the glass. I wonder what quarry she’s hunting in New York, Margaret thought to herself.  Senators, perhaps? Gilbert said she liked men with power.

“I’m sorry I interrupted, Mama.” Her son crept penitently inside the shop again, lingering at her elbow with a downcast eye, waiting for her to make everything right again. Oh, heaven save her from her boys and their long, lonesome looks! He was learning that one from William, who seemed to know just how to look at her from underneath his lashes to make her relent.

“You really must learn to wait, Gilbert,” Margaret said, wrapping an arm around him so she could press him close and kiss the top of his head, trying not to let a tear tickle her eye. Your father was impatient, too.

–

Oh my GOODNESS THIS WAS SO INTERESTING TO TRY AND FIGURE OUT.

So I think that ultimately both of these women would respect each other, in a kind of grudging way. Margaret would have admired Lavinia’s daring when she first learned about her from Gilbert - Lavinia’s free nature would, I think, have been something she’d be a little jealous of.  As someone who knows far too well how much marriage can be a sham and how powerless it can leave women, Lavinia’s very conscious that her actions can be seen as hurtful, and does her best, when she can, to support other women who don’t have the same privileges of money and position that she does. She admires women who go out and take what they want, as Margaret will eventually do in La Fille - and she very much admires women who can make something of themselves - in Margaret’s case, a successful apothecary business to supplement her husband’s work as a physician. (Yes, she does marry William Munro, because I am a predictable ass, and Margaret is first and foremost a canny woman who knows a good deal when she sees one. It isn’t every man who gives you smuggled lemons, after all, even if he can count the months between a wedding and a baby.) 

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Tree Cutting Service in Cork | Tree Services near me

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Professional Tree Surgeons Cork

Looking for Professional tree surgeons in Cork? Look no further than Heritage Tree Care, the leading tree surgeons in the area. Our skilled arborists specialize in tree removal and pruning, ensuring the health and beauty of your trees. With our extensive experience and commitment to excellence, we provide professional and reliable service that you can trust. Don't let your trees suffer – let Heritage Tree Care take care of them for you. Contact Heritage Tree Care today for a consultation and let us bring new life to your outdoor space.

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Experienced Tree Surgeons in Cork Preserving Nature's Beauty

Our team of dedicated arborists specializes in tree care services that aim to preserve and protect the natural beauty of our surroundings. From tree pruning and maintenance to tree removal and stump grinding, our experts offer comprehensive solutions to ensure the health and longevity of your trees. Trust our professional tree surgeons in Cork to provide expert care for your green companions. Bookmark our page to stay connected with the latest updates on tree preservation and sustainable arboriculture practices.