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wolfliving · 3 years ago

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Account of Lord Byron’s Greek residence

*I’m hard put to believe a word of this highly-colored account of Byron’s house in exile, but it’s hard to get more Romantic than this. Extra points for the lack of paintings and the heaps of books covered with scrawled notes.

ACCOUNT OF LORD BYRON'S RESIDENCE, &c.

"The world was all before him, where to choose his place of rest, and Providence his guide."

IN Sailing through the Grecian Archipelago, on board one of his Majesty's vessels, in the year 1812, we put into the harbour of Mitylene, in the island of that name.

The beauty of this place, and the certain supply of cattle and vegetables always to be had there, induce many British vessels to visit it—both men of war and merchantmen; and though it lies rather out of the track for ships bound to Smyrna, its bounties amply repay for the deviation of a voyage.

We landed; as usual, at the bottom of the bay, and whilst the men were employed in watering, and the purser bargaining for cattle with the natives, the clergyman and myself took a ramble to the cave called Homer's School, and other places, where we had been before.

On the brow of Mount Ida (a small monticule so named) we met with and engaged a young Greek as our guide, who told us he had come from Scio with an English lord, who left the island four days previous to our arrival in his felucca.

"He engaged me as a pilot," said the Greek, "and would have taken me with him; but I did not choose to quit Mitylene, where I am likely to get married. He was an odd, but a very good man. The cottage over the hill, facing the river, belongs to him, and he has left an old man in charge of it: he gave Dominick, the wine-trader, six hundred zechines for it, (about L250 English currency,) and has resided there about fourteen months, though not constantly; for he sails in his felucca very often to the different islands."

This account excited our curiosity very much, and we lost no time in hastening to the house where our countryman had resided. We were kindly received by an old man, who conducted us over the mansion.

It consisted of four apartments on the ground-floor—an entrance hall, a drawing-room, a sitting parlour, and a bed-room, with a spacious closet annexed. They were all simply decorated: plain green-stained walls, marble tables on either side, a large myrtle in the centre, and a small fountain beneath, which could be made to play through the branches by moving a spring fixed in the side of a small bronze Venus in a leaning posture; a large couch or sofa completed the furniture.

In the hall stood half a dozen English cane chairs, and an empty book-case: there were no mirrors, nor a single painting. The bedchamber had merely a large mattress spread on the floor, with two stuffed cotton quilts and a pillow—the common bed throughout Greece.

In the sitting-room we observed a marble recess, formerly, the old man told us, filled with books and papers, which were then in a large seaman's chest in the closet: it was open, but we did not think ourselves justified in examining the contents. On the tablet of the recess lay Voltaire's, Shakspeare's, Boileau's, and Rousseau's works complete; Volney's Ruins of Empires; Zimmerman, in the German language; Klopstock's Messiah; Kotzebue's novels; Schiller's play of the Robbers; Milton's Paradise Lost, an Italian edition, printed at Parma in 1810; several small pamphlets from the Greek press at Constantinople, much torn, but no English book of any description. Most of these books were filled with marginal notes, written with a pencil, in Italian and Latin. The Messiah was literally scribbled all over, and marked with slips of paper, on which also were remarks.

The old man said: "The lord had been reading these books the evening before he sailed, and forgot to place them with the others; but," said he, "there they must lie until his return; for he is so particular, that were I to move one thing without orders, he would frown upon me for a week together; he is otherways very good. I once did him a service; and I have the produce of this farm for the trouble of taking care of it, except twenty zechines which I pay to an aged Armenian who resides in a small cottage in the wood, and whom the lord brought here from Adrianople; I don't know for what reason."

The appearance of the house externally was pleasing. The portico in front was fifty paces long and fourteen broad, and the fluted marble pillars with black plinths and fret-work cornices, (as it is now customary in Grecian architecture,) were considerably higher than the roof. The roof, surrounded by a light stone balustrade, was covered by a fine Turkey carpet, beneath an awning of strong coarse linen. Most of the house-tops are thus furnished, as upon them the Greeks pass their evenings in smoking, drinking light wines, such as "lachryma christi," eating fruit, and enjoying the evening breeze.

On the left hand as we entered the house, a small streamlet glided away, grapes, oranges and limes were clustering together on its borders, and under the shade of two large myrtle bushes, a marble seat with an ornamental wooden back was placed, on which we were told, the lord passed many of his evenings and nights till twelve o'clock, reading, writing, and talking to himself. "I suppose," said the old man, "praying" for he was very devout, "and always attended our church twice a week, besides Sundays."

The view from this seat was what may be termed "a bird's-eye view." A line of rich vineyards led the eye to Mount Calcla, covered with olive and myrtle trees in bloom, and on the summit of which an ancient Greek temple appeared in majestic decay. A small stream issuing from the ruins descended in broken cascades, until it was lost in the woods near the mountain's base.

The sea smooth as glass, and an horizon unshadowed by a single cloud, terminates the view in front; and a little on the left, through a vista of lofty chesnut and palm-trees, several small islands were distinctly observed, studding the light blue wave with spots of emerald green. I seldom enjoyed a view more than I did this; but our enquiries were fruitless as to the name of the person who had resided in this romantic solitude: none knew his name but Dominick, his banker, who had gone to Candia.

"The Armenian," said our conductor, "could tell, but I am sure he will not,"—"And cannot you tell, old friend?" said I—"If I can," said he, "I dare not."

We had not time to visit the Armenian, but on our return to the town we learnt several particulars of the isolated lord. He had portioned eight young girls when he was last upon the island, and even danced with them at the nuptial feast. He gave a cow to one man, horses to others, and cotton and silk to the girls who live by weaving these articles. He also bought a new boat for a fisherman who had lost his own in a gale, and he often gave Greek Testaments to the poor children. In short, he appeared to us, from all we collected, to have been a very eccentric and benevolent character.

One circumstance we learnt, which our old friend at the cottage thought proper not to disclose. He had a most beautiful daughter, with whom the lord was often seen walking on the sea-shore, and he had bought her a piano-forte, and taught her himself the use of it.

Such was the information with which we departed from the peaceful isle of Mitylene; our imaginations all on the rack, guessing who this rambler in Greece could be.

He had money it was evident: he had philanthropy of disposition, and all those eccentricities which mark peculiar genius.

Arrived at Palermo, all our doubts were dispelled. Falling in company with Mr. FOSTER, the architect, a pupil of WYATT'S, who had been travelling in Egypt and Greece, "The individual," said he, "about whom you are so anxious, is Lord Byron; I met him in my travels on the island of Tenedos, and I also visited him at Mitylene."

We had never then heard of his lordship's fame, as we had been some years from home; but "Childe Harolde" being put into our hands we recognized the recluse of Calcla in every page. Deeply did we regret not having been more curious in our researches at the cottage, but we consoled ourselves with the idea of returning to Mitylene on some future day; but to me that day will never return.

I make this statement, believing it not quite uninteresting, and in justice to his lordship's good name, which has been grossly slandered. He has been described as of an unfeeling disposition, averse to associating with human nature, or contributing in any way to sooth its sorrows, or add to its pleasures. The fact is directly the reverse, as may be plainly gathered from these little anecdotes.

All the finer feelings of the heart, so elegantly depicted in his lordship's poems, seem to have their seat in his bosom. Tenderness, sympathy, and charity appear to guide all his actions: and his courting the repose of solitude is an additional reason for marking him as a being on whose heart Religion hath set her seal, and over whose head Benevolence hath thrown her mantle. No man can read the preceding pleasing "traits" without feeling proud of him as a countryman.

With respect to his loves or pleasures, I do not assume a right to give an opinion. Reports are ever to be received with caution, particularly when directed against man's moral integrity; and he who dares justify himself before that awful tribunal where all must appear, alone may censure the errors of a fellow-mortal. Lord Byron's character is worthy of his genius. To do good in secret, and shun the world's applause, is the surest testimony of a virtuous heart and self-approving conscience.

THE END

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scullymakesmefeelautopsyturvy · 5 years ago

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Several Times Scully Got Locked Out Of Her Motel Room In Her Scanties (First Time Smut Ensues) Chapter One

Space (Season One)

They sat on the city steps in the midday sunshine awaiting another of Mulder’s mysterious informants. She, eating a sad little excuse for a sandwich: cucumber-dampened white bread encompassing roast chicken lovingly Saran-wrapped and pressed into her hand after Sunday lunch at her parents’ house. An awkward lunch, during which her father had accomplished the stellar feat of not asking her about her work once. I should have cheered everyone up by asking if anyone had heard from Charles lately, Melissa had joked, darkly, over the phone afterwards.

The sandwich stuck in her throat a little as she swallowed, and out of nowhere, everything felt so… insufficient.

Was this really her life now? Crackpots and conservative suits and no sex since Jack? Reading journals alone on Friday nights and eating her mother’s leftovers?

She was still stashing a fastidiously initialed brown bag in the Bureau staff kitchen fridge each morning, as she had been in the habit of doing at Quantico.

Dana Katherine Scully, you’re hardly a schoolgirl anymore, she told herself.

Perhaps it was time to graduate to lunch in the cafeteria, like one of the big kids.

Mulder nibbled on his inescapable sunflower seeds. Rental car cup holders. The top drawer of the basement desk. The bottom drawer, and the middle. Even loose, once, inexplicably, in her suitcase when she arrived home from a three-night case in Iowa. They were everywhere, pervading her entire life with their woody scent and their easy charm just like the man who unceasingly consumed them.

He was close, now, his knees spread wide and swinging with casual rich-kid confidence as he began to lose patience with his anonymous NASA tipster. Scully kept her stockinged legs primly pressed together, her well-lined heavy linen skirt draping over her kneecaps, preserving her modesty. His fingertips brushed her own as he handed her the informant’s note, and she was glad of the excuse to break his gaze, to look down and away from his face; the inevitable thrill she was coming to know so well shooting through her body from tip to toes.

When the Space Program whistleblower did arrive, it was a she; a development Scully could well have done without. Especially one as… developed as this.

Long and lean, blonde, finessed; Michelle Generoo looked exactly like the full-sized version of the girls Scully imagined Mulder growing up with on Martha’s Vineyard, summering in Rhode Island, picnicking on lush lawns by sparkling waters while she herself played hopscotch with scavenged pebbles on Navy base blacktop, or avoided cracks in uneven paving slabs as she skipped along in hand-me-down pleated skirts and fraying hand-knitted sweaters. This was probably exactly the WASP-y horsewoman type Mulder’s parents had always envisaged him marrying, with her tweed jacket and her long silky locks and her mirror-lensed aviators.

Not a squat, pale, Irish Catholic Navy brat with full cheeks, wiry russet hair and stubborn freckles that were probably popping exponentially with every second spent sitting in this sunshine. Who still brought homemade sandwiches to work.

Michelle Generoo: Mission Control Communications Commander for the Space Program in Houston. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me now, for I must have sinned, and am being punished with the early-afternoon arrival of Fox Mulder’s ideal woman, sent from heaven to enact my own personal hell.

Scully hated this feeling: this creeping sense of little sister inferiority. It was the mid-semester first day at a new school all over again, having been transplanted with her father’s latest deployment; Bill laughing and joking with the jocks or the prettiest clique of girls he could find, she hiding with a book in the library. It was enviously watching Melissa tame her curls into elaborate braids when all she could manage was a stubby ponytail with lumps at her crown, aged seven, twelve, twenty-nine.

What was it about prepubescent inadequacies that made them so infuriatingly unassailable? Successfully reinterpreting Einstein and near-perfect pistol qualification scores had only ever compensated for so much.

At the mention of a fiancé - a Shuttle Commanding astronaut fiancé, no less - Scully relaxed somewhat. For once, she was glad that Mulder’s particular obsession with certain matters of the universe was a little less than impressive to the casual observer.

Mulder disappeared off into the city on some unspecified errand, and sent her back to the Hoover Building to arrange flights and accommodation, agreeing to meet her at the airport.

On the plane, he seemed disappointed when she didn’t want to read his brand new copy of NASA: A History of American Space Travel, and peppered her with trivia instead.

“Did you know, all twelve men who walked on the moon agree, the surface smells like spent gunpowder?”

“Oh really,” Scully said. “And what did the women say?”

Mulder looked a little uncomfortable. Having made her point about why she might, perhaps, feel a little excluded from his spaceboy enthusiasm, Scully pondered this fact.

“They can’t remove their helmet on the moon; there’s no atmosphere.” She countered. “How do they know what it smells like?”

“From the dust left over on their spacesuits,” Mulder was clearly happy to be able to inform her.

Scully frowned at him.

“You think they’re so cool, don’t you Mulder?”

He looked personally injured. “Scully, how can you be the one person in the universe - a physicist, no less - who doesn’t think space travel is cool?”

She turned her torso in her narrow seat to face him.

“Mulder, when I was five years old, for Apollo 11, I was just as excited as you are now. My older brother and sister and I followed the news of the mission; we watched the moon landing just like everybody else. Bill and Melissa dressed up as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin for Halloween that year; they made me be the Stars and Stripes so we could all pose for photos together. I had to stick my arm out and wobble the flag. We were just as space crazed as anyone. And over the years, as the missions continued, I read everything, I mean everything-” Mulder nodded, he could surely believe that of Scully at any age - “and I found out some trivia of my own.”

Mulder titled his head, curious.

“You know, a spacesuit is a sealed environment. It has to be airtight, right?”

Mulder nodded.

“And spacewalks last between five and eight hours on average.”

Mulder was listening intently.

“Well, there’s… nowhere to… go. When you have to go,” she gestured euphemistically. “And in a zero-gravity environment - or any environment, in fact - you don’t want to just relieve yourself inside the suit.”

Mulder frowned.

“So they wear these… things. It’s called a MAG: A Maximum Absorbency Garment,” she enunciated carefully. “You just… let it go, and it… absorbs it.”

Mulder looked perturbed.

“So basically, underneath that cool, space-exploring exterior,” Scully continued, “you’ve got a bunch of highly trained, hero-worshipped men - and now, women - floating around wearing adult diapers.”

Mulder swallowed hard.

“You know, I have a little brother. Charles. When he was still wearing Pampers I would watch my mom changing him, and I’d smell those foul odors and witness the frankly terrifying contents in some detail, and I just - I could never look at astronauts in the same way again after I found out about the MAG. I don’t know, it just ruined it for me.”

Her partner sat back quietly in his chair, more than a little disturbed.

Scully smiled at him weakly, and decided to take a nap.

On the tarmac in Houston, the cabin lights, dimmed for landing, switched back to full brightness as the seatbelt indicator dinged off. Mulder sprang out of his seat, already reaching up for the overhead bins to retrieve their luggage.

Scully sat calmly with her forest-green briefcase on her lap, not willing to pointlessly stand for ten minutes while the passengers in rows A-R filed interminably slowly up the aisle, huffing and checking her watch as though that would change the physics of the aircraft and hurry anything along.

No, patience had always been her friend; she would await her turn peacefully, could wait for anything forever, so long as she knew for certain it was coming to her.

Alighted, they bypassed the checked baggage carousels, Mulder carrying the suitcases and Scully toting only her leather satchel. The pair walked to the Lariat desk, where Scully hung back, and Mulder flirted with the smiling clerk working the night shift.

In the car, Mulder questioned her again about the arrangements.

“Intercontinental, Scully? It’s probably the furthest possible airport from the Space Center.”

“...and all requisitions would let me book at such late notice. The flights into Hobby were almost double the cost. It would be a waste of taxpayers’ money.” She signalled right, checking both directions.

“Are we heading further North, Scully?” Mulder asked, checking the constellations through the windshield.

She tsked and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “It’s late. If you want to make all future travel bookings, be my guest, Mulder. But as it stands we’ll stay up here tonight, drive down for our eight-thirty a.m., and stay down there from tomorrow.”

At the mention of the morning meeting with Lt. Belt, Mulder brightened, and stuck his head back in his book for the remainder of the journey to their motel.

When they arrived at the Spring Creek Mercury Motorlodge, she threw him a look. A warning shot.

Don’t say a word, Mulder.

The motel took shabby to a whole new level: the paintwork was more chips than oil-based matte; the blown bulbs outnumbered the working ones, the woodwork of the bare-bones portico looked like it should have been condemned alongside the Rosenbergs.

The sign on the office door declared, ‘Desk open 7 a.m. - 10 p.m. ONLY ring bell outside of opening hours for ABSOLUTE EMERGENCIES.’

Scully checked her watch. It was approaching midnight. A handwritten Post-It stuck at an angle underneath read, ‘Scully booking, rooms # 8 & 12. Doors open. Keycards inside.’

“Always nice to experience that famous Southern hospitality,” Mulder deadpanned, peeling the note from the glass. They moved along the walkway, counting up as they went.

The door to number eight was propped barely ajar with a rotting two-by-four. Scully could see the square of exposed woodwork where an old lock mechanism had been removed: replaced by a newfangled electronic keycard system. She ran her eyes over the crumbling porch roof and thought, Really? This is where they chose to invest their refurb budget?

Mulder pushed the door open for Scully and held her gaze as she stared at him momentarily. He looked like he was about to follow her into the room.

“Thanks,” she gulped, taking her suitcase from his hand.

But he stayed put outside, grabbing the handle to pull the door shut, double checking their plans for the morning. “See you at seven-fifteen then? All checks complete and ready to strap ourselves into the command module?” He grinned.

Scully dropped her case onto the bed and sighed. He was going to be insufferable tomorrow.

***

After showering, hanging up her burgundy pantsuit for the next day, then losing a fight with the room’s overactive heater, Scully unravelled the tightly rolled pink satin pajamas from her suitcase. You get fewer wrinkles if you roll rather than fold, her mother had taught her.

Stepping into them, she could already feel herself perspiring lightly, and wondered if it would be better to do without the pajamas or the comforter. Her mind flashed to the various possible emergencies that might see her fleeing her room in the middle of the night: a fire, a tornado, an intruder.

Keep the pajamas, lose the comforter, she decided.

But she suspected she’d need more to keep herself cool. She remembered passing an ice machine a few doors down, and grabbed a metal bucket left on the dresser for just such purposes, tucking her keycard into the breast pocket of her nightwear as she went.

She was so warm and the ice machine was so close, she didn’t even bother with shoes as she tiptoed the few feet along the walkway. The machine hummed and clanked as she lifted the front and noisily plunged the bucket into the crisp, dry cubes.

Ice.

The Arctic Ice Core Project. Alaska. A sparsely appointed supply closet. Mulder crouching down to her level and hissing his balmy, furious breath directly into her face.

I don’t trust them. I WANT to trust you.

He’d been angry and sweaty and ripe, and it had been the two of them against the others. They’d made what felt like a binding pact, whispering conspiratorially; sealing it with their laying on of hands.

If she’d been asked prior to that about the most intimate part of a person’s body, she might have given the same answers as anyone else. Reproductive organs her studies had given her medical names for. Mammary glands meant for feeding young but warped by western culture into symbols of sex and shame. Perhaps the cushiony swell of the gluteus maximus, so favored by jocks, and creeps in bars.

But she’d finished that case on the Icy Cape with the discovery of more than a new species of worm; she’d learned for the first time about the deep, heady, overwhelming intimacy of touching another person at the back of the neck.

Jesus, she’d already been so wet when he’d grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back to inspect her spine. She feared her unguarded gasp had given her away. And when he’d brushed aside her hair and lain his whole palm against the nape of her neck, awaiting the telltale wriggle of the homicide-inducing parasite, it was she who had squirmed beneath the hot, unrelenting pressure.

Oh god, what he’d be able to do to her with those big, strong, capable hands.

Alaska at that latitude had average winter temperatures of less than zero degrees Fahrenheit. November on the North Slope saw little more than three hours of sunshine a day. They regularly experienced impenetrable blizzards that could freeze a person to death in under an hour.

But when Dana Scully thought of the Icy Cape, all she could feel was searing, blazing, pulsing heat.

She filled the ice bucket, slammed the machine shut, and carried her personal cooling system back to her room, balancing it on her hip like an infant as she swiped the keycard for entry.

She got a red light.

Furrowing her brow, she swiped again.

Red.

Again.

Red.

Sighing her frustration, she ran the card through the slot several more times, resting the bucket on the floor and jiggling the handle as she tried over and over for green, listening for the buzz of the latch electronically pulling back.

Nothing.

She threw her hands up in the air and tried twice more to no avail.

She looked about her for assistance, finding none. No one was about. She started off towards the office and slowed as she reached the door. She re-read the sign.

ABSOLUTE EMERGENCIES.

Well, she couldn’t get into her room. Surely that was an emergency. She pressed the bell and waited, but no one came. She pressed again, and again, nothing. This was ridiculous. She tried once more with the bell, and after two minutes, sighing furiously, strode back along the walkway, her bare toes starting to go numb. She’d successfully cooled off, at least.

She continued past room eight, doubling back to try the lock three more times then kicking the door with great vexation before jogging up towards number twelve, wrapping her arms around her breasts to warm herself. The ice bucket stood sentry, dripping condensation.

She lifted her knuckle to knock on Mulder’s door, then hesitated slightly. She stole a glance down at her pajamas. They were not thick, and clung to her curves, puckering at her bare nipples. Mulder had seen her wearing far less - had checked her for mosquito bites clad only in what her maternal Grandmother would have called her smalls on their very first case - and remained professional, but that had been a rare exception, borne of her neophyte panic. She worked so hard to be taken seriously, to be seen as a colleague and an expert and a peer, and not as a sexual object. It was hard to project an air of authority in pastel pink satin with your breasts announcing themselves to anyone within five hundred yards. But Jesus, it was freezing out, and she had to be up and dressed in less than seven hours. She wasn’t about to spend a frostbitten night out in the cold and give herself hypothermia for the sake of avoiding a little embarrassment. She was a fully grown woman; Mulder, a fully grown man. They were both adults here. They could be mature about this.

She knocked, hugging her chest again afterwards.

Mulder opened the door still in his shirt and tie, although his jacket was hung over the desk chair in the corner. The NASA book lay face down, open on the bed. He chewed on one of his infernal seeds.

“You okay, Scully?” he asked, frowning. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Couldn’t get back into my room,” Scully explained, huffing. “I went out for ice and my… the keycard doesn’t work.”

“You should ring the bell for the owners,” Mulder suggested, unhelpfully.

“I did,” Scully said, pointedly. “No answer.” She looked up at him and pressed her lips together apologetically. “Can I come in?”

“Of course, of course,” Mulder said, standing back to let her enter. He stood with his back to the door after it was closed. “You can sleep in here; it’s no bother. I’ll crash on the floor.”

“Thank you,” Scully said, perching on the desk. Mulder sat himself on the end of the bed and gazed over at her.

“You cold?” he asked.

Actually, Mulder’s room was as toasty as hers had been, and her toes were already thawing out.

“Warming up,” she said, thankfully.

“Just that you’re… hugging yourself,” he explained, gesturing at her arms, still clamped across her unsecured bosom.

“Oh,” she said, self-consciously, but let her arms drop slowly to her sides, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands for security. “I’m not… wearing very much, is all.”

“Oh,” he echoed softly, his eyes scanning the length of her nightwear all the way to the floor and back up again. Yes, she was certainly feeling some heat once again.

“What you are wearing is… very nice though.” His eyes settled on her own for a few seconds, then flicked down to her breasts, and she inhaled sharply, silently, she hoped in retrospect. When he looked back at her face, her mouth was hanging slightly open, and she caught herself, licking her lips for discipline, her chest heaving. He looked down again.

She felt her cheeks burning, and averted her eyes to the book on the bed, a change of focus for her mind, which was racing with thoughts of candlelight and shower-wet hair, of thermal shirts and platonic supply closet fumblings: Mulder and his fingertips the common denominator in these scenarios.

She forced herself to look back at him. He was comfortably staring now, his face giving nothing away, but she knew he was quite aware she’d seen him appreciating her exposed form. He was leaving this up to her.

She wrestled with her conscience.

She shouldn’t do this. They were partners. It was against Bureau policy. It was unprofessional. It could ruin her career if it ended badly. Worse, it could come between her and Mulder, drive a wedge between them and prise apart their newly cemented friendship.

But…

She thought of Oregon and hands and Alaska and ice, and she knew what she wanted.

You’re hardly a schoolgirl anymore...

She stood up slowly, wordlessly taking a few steps towards Mulder on the bed. Yes, they were both fully grown, and she had some very adult ideas about what they could do together.

She paused one or two paces from his knees, and held his gaze for a moment. She let her lips fall open once more, her breathing labored, and she saw his breath was keeping pace with her own.

She thought of Michelle Generoo, and of her own jealousies and insecurities, and second guessed herself momentarily. She’d always suspected she wasn’t Mulder’s type. Yes, he had moments ago brazenly taken in the sight of her nipples brushing against the silky confines of her pajama top, but he was a red-blooded straight male, and they had been right there, still standing at attention from her time out in the cold. And yes, he was looking at her intently now as she crossed the room, the propulsion of months and months of unverbalized, unresolved sexual tension at her back, but his expression was blank, and he might be nervously wondering how the hell he was going to abort this mission.

There was one way to be sure. He had done his fair share of looking; it was her turn to be brazen.

She dropped her gaze to his lap, seeking a different kind of green light.

In the dim glow coming from the slightly open bathroom door, she found exactly what she was seeking. The bulge that tented Mulder’s pants cast a promising shadow. She was go for launch.

She took another step, and found his eyeline once more.

His pupils were dilated, his lips pillow-soft and pouting, the ridge growing noticeably larger even in her peripheral vision.

She reached down for his left hand and brought it to her breast, pressing it against herself over the pajamas.

“Make me see stars, Mulder,” she whispered, breaking into a lazy smile.

His momentary expression of disbelief gave way to a grin, and he looked up at her with reverence. She let go of his fingers, dropping her arm to her side once again, and his palm moved with feathery softness over her breast, centering her nipple in the smoothest spot, where you’d clutch a baby’s fist, or a prized possession. The heat of his hand radiated through the satin, the friction of skin on fabric even more erotic than direct contact. Their gazes were locked. His mouth fell open a fraction, mirroring hers, and he raised his other hand to work both breasts, his fingers held up and away from her body as he traced circles with her hardened peaks against his deep volar arches. She closed her eyes and moaned, low and soft, letting her head fall backwards. Her knees went limp, and Mulder steadied her with one hand, docking her at the hip.

His grip sent shockwaves to her core, her pulse now strongest between her legs. She knew she was already leaving a damp mark on her pajama bottoms.

She lifted her head back up and looked down at Mulder, still seated on the edge of the comforter. They panted together in the quiet, each awestruck by the other, and Scully reached up to her top button, deftly pushing it through the opening with her delicately manicured fingertips. She did not avert her eyes from Mulder’s as she worked her way down to her waist, finally letting the shirt hang open at the front.

She took his left hand once more and tucked it inside the front panel, his massive palm easily encompassing the entire fleshy mound there. He squeezed her hip gently, cupping her and pulling her towards him at once, guiding her between his knees. Checking her eyes for continued consent, he brushed the center of her shirt to one side and revealed half of her chest to his vision for the first time.

“Oh, Scully,” he said in a hushed voice, and - permission silently granted by Scully’s hungry gaze - lifted his mouth to her nipple and latched on, sucking, circling his tongue around her hot, pink bud. She moaned again and grabbed the back of his head, twisting her fingers into his hair, her nails scratching at his scalp.

His mouth broke contact with her delicately pale skin, and he pushed the satin from her shoulders, letting it whoosh to the floor.

He was gazing up at her again, and she leaned down to kiss him now, finally allowing herself to experience in the flesh that which she had longed for, imagined, fantasized about for some time. Their lips met; wet, fervent, ravenous. Their shared craving drew them together, suctioning them to one another at the mouth as though they could consume one another entirely, and meant to. His salted breath mingled with her own, and their tongues tangled and danced. He ran his hand up her naked back, and her breasts pressed against his collarbone.

He pulled away, and she held the side of his face tightly to her bare chest, breathless, eyes closed.

“Scully,” he ventured, “are you sure about this?” He looked up at her with his soft, beautiful, hazel eyes. She didn’t know what had possessed her for so long, being able to resist those eyes all these months.

She straightened up, and took his hand once again, reaching behind herself to slide it down the back of her waistband, over her rounded ass, and into the molten cleft of her body. She spread her thighs as his fingers found her desire, parting and probing her on their voyage of discovery. He dipped a single digit inside her body, and she exhaled on a low moan.

“I’m sure, Mulder,” she murmured, smiling again. “Take me to the moon and back.”

He relaxed a little, his shoulders dropping, “Oh is that the game?” he teased, “Space puns?”

She shrugged playfully.

He smiled wide at her, or she thought he did; it was hard to see with her eyelashes fluttering closed. Her head dropped back once more as he pumped into her, his thumb resting fortuitously against the base of her perineum, that dark, forbidden, blissful spot. She felt alive, animal, raw. She let her breath come out ragged, allowed her rasps and moans to escape unbridled. Mulder paused his efforts for a second or two, leaving two fingers curled inside her, using his free hand to yank down her pajama pants. She helped, kicking them loose from her ankles as he grabbed a handful of her ass with his spare hand and pulled her toward the bed, reclining face up on the mattress and encouraging her to crawl on her knees up to his shoulders and sit back. Only then did he remove his fingers from inside of her, and her body sucked at them as he did, protesting their departure.

Scully was giddy with want, and Mulder looked up at her just then with such veneration that her heart burst with renewed affection for him. She’d never been made to feel more worthy in her life. This was so Mulder. She had not specifically realized it before, but this was how he often made her feel, in his best moments.

At the insistence of his hand pressing gently on her lower back, his fingers sticky with her own yearning, she lowered her sex to his mouth.

As soon as his velvet tongue met her clit, she cried out, almost lifting herself up on her knees at the shock of it. He held her steady, lapping at her hardened bundle of nerves with the flat of his tongue, softly at first, then applying more and more pressure as she sunk further down onto him, his chin pressing up into her heat, her slick juices gliding her inner walls against his light stubble. Oh Jesus, it was divine, and she called out his last name as she rode his face, her breath hitching in her throat as her trajectory was set to climax.

Scully chanced a glance downwards and saw that he was watching her in her ecstasy.

She was wanted. She was valued. She was enough.

She smiled down at him, not halting her movements, and reached up to pinch her own nipples with her dainty, expert hands. Mulder groaned his pleasure into her body, sucking and licking and holding her down so she could not get away.

“Fuck,” she gasped, and was lost; her face lifted to the heavens, her body and mind spinning and soaring in concupiscent formation, her voice clamorously invoking two thirds of the Trinity with various, stertorous monikers as she rocketed into her own private orbit.

Mulder massaged her hips and kept his chin tilted up into her as she twitched and panted and called out for God, and she felt her inner muscles contracting around his way-past-five-o-clock shadow. The humid air of his heavy breath rushed from his nose, tickling her pubic mound as his lips remained clamped over the hood of her clitoris. She exhaled the last of her shudders and sat back on her haunches, resting on his solid pectorals, running her tongue over her lips, wetting them with exhausted delight. Mulder’s chin glistened in the dim room, drenched, and she laughed, reaching down to wipe him off.

He let her, but then caught her by the wrist and held her soaked palm against his mouth, kissing it, hard, and smearing the residue of her arousal all over his lips once again. He licked them clean, unblinking.

She buried her face in her other hand and laughed shyly.

Mulder chuckled along with her, resting his hands on her still-spread thighs, his thumbs dipping close to her parted labia. She bit her lower lip and looked him in the eye once again, unable to hide her happiness.

“Luckily, out here, no one can hear you scream,” he joked, a question in his eyes suggesting he was worried he might not get away with this, and she pushed him away teasingly but giggled as she climbed off the bed. She picked up her pajama pants from the floor.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Mulder asked her as she stood up.

“I’ll be right back,” Scully responded, flinging the bottoms over her shoulder and sauntering off to the bathroom, looking back at him to make sure he was getting a good look at her receding form. “Don’t move.”

She glanced down at the enormous bulge in his pants once again, and knew she needn’t worry. He wouldn’t be going anywhere with that thing.

She returned a few minutes later, now wearing the satin pants, and sporting a dark gleam in her eye as she crept across the carpet towards him. When she reached the bed, he leaned up on his elbows and reached for her to pull her onto the bed, but she shook her head. Instead, she reached for his belt buckle and deliberately undid it, sliding the leather through the metal loop before reaching for his fly. As she unzipped his pants, Mulder lifted his hips, and his erection bounced up, pushing the flaps of the zipper to either side, straining against his boxer briefs. This was one shuttle she wouldn’t mind watching blast off, and she was ready to fire up the booster rockets.

She helped him remove his pants, then tugged at the waistband of his underwear. He removed it and lay himself back down on the bed, looking almost anxious.

“Mulder,” she reassured him. “Relax; I want this. I want you.” She whispered the last part, lowering herself to kneel at the foot of the bed.

His manhood loomed large, worryingly large for such a petite person, but Scully had never met a challenge she didn’t want to face. And face it she did; this hard, quivering invitation to wantonness inches from her mouth. He smelled like the Mulder she had come to know, only stronger here; that musky, spicy pheromone blend that brought her to her knees - now, finally, literally - and she breathed him in with abandon.

She gripped him in her hand, taking his tip into her mouth, sweeping her tongue around the head of his cock as he exhaled forcefully. She slid her closed palm up and down the base of his shaft, letting her saliva drip down to lubricate her ministrations, then working him further into her jaws so that the top of his penis rubbed just against her soft palate. She bobbed her head against him. He filled her mouth easily, and she thought of all the times she’d surreptitiously stolen a glance at his lap. Her curiosity had been satisfied, and then some. He was every bit as big as she’d always suspected, and her small oral cavity made for a snug fit as she worked him into a frenzy on the bed.

He clutched at the covers and murmured her name, encouraging her efforts all the while. He slowed her at one point, just managing to explain through his moans that he wanted to enjoy it a little longer, but his thighs were soon flexing again and she accelerated her pumping with her fist, sucking a little harder, working the tip of her tongue against his popping veins.

Mulder reached out and grabbed at her shoulder, clumsily pushing her back. “T-minus... T-minus five seconds and… and counting…” he sputtered, and she risked another tongue swirl, another deep thrust towards her throat.

“Scully!” Mulder choked out, and she pulled her mouth away. She kept her hand in place and he wrapped his own around it, working his erection skillfully as he delivered his impressive payload over their ten conjoined fingers and down onto his stomach. A coy smirk plastered itself across Scully’s face as he collapsed back onto the bed.

She raised herself from the floor, rolling her neck from side to side, and grabbed the box of tissues that was sitting on the nightstand. She held them out and sat on the mattress, one foot tucked under the opposite thigh, her breasts sitting proudly on her chest with the pert insouciance of youth.

Mulder cleaned himself up and aimed the balled up tissues at the wastebasket, missing. He sighed, but didn’t get up, so Scully laughingly dragged herself over and retrieved the errant missiles, dropping them into their intended target. She returned to the bed and lay herself down in the crook of Mulder’s arm.

He kissed her temple, a peck, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, then lifted her chin with one finger so that he could plant a full kiss on her mouth. She breathed in the scent of herself on his lips, their musky scents intermingling on both their tongues.

“Wow Scully,” he smiled. “That was fun.”

She nodded, grinning herself.

“Although, it was a bit of a close encounter, if you know what I mean,” he said, and she buried her face in his shoulder and laughed, any residual worries she’d had about this changing the fundamental nature of their relationship flying away on her huffing breath and disappearing into the vacuum of the mattress.

Mulder lifted his head. “Oh god, it’s past two,” he announced. He must have been checking the display on the alarm clock. “You should get some sleep Scully; you gotta drive us down to the Space Center in the morning.”

“Hey, it’s your turn,” she whined, sitting up and pulling the covers back to climb beneath. Her pajama shirt lay forgotten on the floor. Tornadoes and fires be damned, she’d already had her ABSOLUTE EMERGENCY for the night. It was too hot for more clothes, especially with Mulder’s intense body heat so close. And she did intend to hold him close tonight. And other nights, if he wanted her.

“Talk about a waste of taxpayer’s money, Scully,” Mulder droned, sitting up and shaking himself alert. “The two of us sharing a motel room while another sits empty.”

“Oh,” Scully replied sleepily. “Believe me, I’m demanding a refund on my room.”

“Demanding a refund, Scully?” Mulder queried, now folding his pants and setting them on the chair by his suit jacket. “You weren’t happy with the level of service you just received?”

She squinted one eye open to look at him. “Mmm, you? You did good, Mulder. I’ll be sure to leave a generous tip for you at check out.” She patted the mattress next to her.

“I’ll be right there,” he assured her, disappearing off into the bathroom.

She was asleep before he even turned out the light.

***

Scully had witnessed Mulder ejaculating for the first time at the Spring Creek Mercury Motorlodge, but she genuinely worried she might see an impromptu repeat performance when they arrived at the Space Center the following morning. Walking to their meeting, they bantered for the benefit of their NASA escort, Mulder practically bouncing off the walls and once again bombarding her with facts and figures.

“You remember all that stuff?” she asked, wearily, suppressing a yawn.

“You never wanted to be an astronaut when you were a kid, Scully?”

“Guess I missed that phase,” she sighed, mouthing ‘adult diapers’ at him behind their guide’s back.

She couldn’t help but make fun of him for his adulation of Lt. Belt, either. “Didn’t you want to get his autograph?” she teased as they left the Space Shuttle Program Director’s office, and when Mulder caught up with her he tapped her lightly on the ass in retaliation.

At some point in the afternoon, Mulder slunk off and made some phone calls, and when they drove to their accommodation after the successful launch that evening, it wasn’t the motel Scully had booked but a ritzy hotel with bellhops and room service. They finally made it back there in the middle of the night, following the complications with the mission and Lt. Belt’s questionable press conference.

At the reception desk, Mulder retrieved two keys, but when he held one out to Scully and she grasped her forefinger and thumb around it, he didn’t let go. She looked up to meet his smoldering gaze.

“What’s the matter Houston; do we… have a problem?” She managed to keep a straight face, just about.

“What do you say we waste some more taxpayer’s money tonight, Scully?” he grinned, his voice hushed, seductive. “Maybe we can cross... the final frontier?”

She halfheartedly rolled her eyes at his pun, but her insides were already aflame. She drew her mouth into a tight, shy smile, and nodded her agreement.

nb. I want everyone to know that I watched the Falcon 9 launch and I managed to refrain myself from using the phrase ‘good orbital insertion’ in this fic. And that was a struggle.

AO3 link here.

#xfsmut2020 #mulder and scully #mulder #scully #the x files #x files #x files fanfic

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wetagconsulting · 4 years ago

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Beautiful villa in attractive position at the lakeshore in Magliaso

Magliaso is located southwesterly of Lugano in the beautiful region of Malcantone. With its numerous Merlot vineyards, its lake promenade, the zoo, the golf court and thanks to the vicinity to Italy, Magliaso stands out as a popular recreation destination; who is living there is in best company. Noble villas, a small harbor and restaurants as well as the public beach in the immediate vicinity, make this place very attractive.

This chic villa with a total of 7.5 rooms, a fireplace, marble and parquet floorings, large terrace with lake view, portico as well as a flat garden with direct access to the pedestrian lake promenade on Lake Lugano, offers all amenities at a fair price.

Who desires to live directly at the lakeside should take a closer look at this villa. It would be a great pleasure to me and my team to personally introduce you this villa.

Sincerely, Philipp Peter Owner

+ 41 (0) 91 601 04 50 - [email protected] - www.wetag.ch

vimeo

Magliaso, Lake Lugano - ref. 88495

Beautiful villa for sale in Magliaso on the shores of Lake Lugano

Highlights

Close to the golf court Possibility to put a swimming pool Direct access to the lakefront promenade Perfect for families

#Magliaso #Villa #Video #Lake Lugano

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orthodoxydaily · 4 years ago

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Icon,Saints& Reading: Wed., Nov, 25, 2020

Commemorated on November 12_ Julian Calendar

Saint John the Merciful, Patriarch of Alexandria (620)

Saint John the Merciful, Patriarch of Alexandria, was born on Cyprus in the VII Century into the family of the illustrious dignitary Epiphanios. At the wish of his parents he entered into marriage and had children. When the wife and the children of the saint died, he became a monk: strict at fasting, prayer and love for brother. His spiritual exploits gain him reknown, and when the Patriarchal cathedra-seat at Alexandria fell vacant, the emperor Heraclius and all the clergy besought Saint John to occupy the Patriarchal throne. The saint worthily assumed his archpastoral service, concerning himself over the moral and dogmatic welfare of his flock. During his time as patriarch he denounced and drove out from Alexandria the heresy of the Antioch Monophysite Phyllonos. But his chief task he considered to be charity and beneficence towards all those in need. At the beginning of his patriarchal service he ordered an accounting of all the poor and downtrodden in Alexandria, which turned out to be over seven thousand men. To all these unfortunates the saint daily distributed food, gratis and for free. Twice during the week, on Wednesdays and Fridays, he emerged from the doors of the Patriarchal cathedral, and sitting on the church portico, he received everyone in need: he settled quarrels, aided the wronged, and distributed alms. Three times a week he visited in the sick-houses, and rendered help to the suffering. It was during this period that the emperor Heraclius led a tremendous army against the Persian emperor Chosroes II. It resulted with the Persians ravaging and burning Jerusalem, and taking a multitude of captives. The holy Patriarch John gave over a large portion of the church treasury for their ransom. The saint never refused suppliants. One time along the road to the sick-house he encountered a beggar and commanded that he be given 6 silver coins. The beggar, having made a change of clothes, ran on ahead of the Patriarch and again began to entreat alms. Saint John again gave him 6 silver coins. When however the beggar a third time besought charity, and the servants began to thrust away the obtrusive fellow, the Patriarch ordered that he be given 12 pieces of silver, saying: "Is Christ not indeed putting me to the test?" Twice the saint gave money to a merchant that had suffered shipwreck, and a third time gave him a ship belonging to the Patriarchate and filled with grain, with which the merchant had a successful journey and repaid his obligations. Saint John the Merciful was known for his gentle attitude towards people. One time the saint was compelled because of some offense to remove from the Church a certain clergyman. This fellow was angry at the Patriarch, and so the saint wanted to summon him and talk it out, but it slipped his mind. But when he was celebrating the Divine Liturgy, the saint was suddenly reminded by the words of the Gospel: when thou bringest forth thine gift to the altar and do recollect, that thine brother hath something against thee, leave hold thine gift and first make peace with thine brother (Mt. 5: 23-24). The saint came out of the altar, called over the offending clergyman to him, and falling down on his knees before him, in front of all the people he asked forgiveness. The clergyman, shaken with surprise, repented his doings and afterwards became a pious priest. Likewise there was a time when a certain citizen insulted George, a nephew of the Patriarch. George asked the saint to avenge the wrong. The saint promised to reward the offender, in a manner that all Alexandria would see. This calmed George down, and Saint John began to instruct him, speaking about the necessity of meekness and humility, and then, having summoned the insulter, he declared, that he would release him from payment of a church tax on his land. Alexandria indeed was amazed by such a "revenge", and George learned the lesson in the teaching of his uncle. Saint John, a strict ascetic and man of prayer, was always mindful of his soul, and of death. He commissioned for himself a crypt-coffin, but he did not bid the master-craftsmen to finish it off, instead each feastday he would have them come and ask, if it was time to finish the work. Shortly before his death, Saint John through illness was compelled to resign his cathedra and set off to the island of Cyprus. On the ship-journey the saint in his illness had a sign: in a sleep-vision a resplendent man appeared to him and said: "The King of kings doth summon thee unto Himself". The vision announced the impending death of the Patriarch. Having arrived at Cyprus, in his native city of Amaphunteia, the saint in peace expired to the Lord (616-620).

The Holy Monk Nilos the Faster

The Holy Monk Nilos the Faster, a native of Constantinople. He lived during the V Century and was a student of Saint John Chrysostom. Having received a fine education, the saint while still a young man was appointed to the important post of prefect of the capital. During this period, Nilos was married and had children. But the pomp of courtly life bothered the couple. Saint John Chrysostom exerted a tremendous influence upon their lives and their strivings. The spouses decided to separate and devote themself to monastic life. The wife and daughter of Nilos set out to one of the women's monasteries in Egypt, and the Monk Nilos and his son Theodoulos went to Sinai, where they settled in a cave dug out by their own hands. For forty years this cave served as the dwelling of the Monk Nilos. By fasting, prayer and works, the monk attained to an high degree of spiritual perfection. People began to come to him from every occupation and social rank – from the emperor down to the farmer, and each found counsel and comfort from the saint. In solitude the Monk Nilos wrote much. A letter of his is known of – in which there is an angry denunciation of the emperor Arcadius, who had exiled Saint John Chrysostom. And widely known are the ascetic works of the Monk Nilos: they are perfectly executed in form, profoundly Orthodox, and filled with sincere sense and clear thought. The Monk Nilos suffered many a misfortune in the wilderness. Thus, for example, Saracens captured his son Theodoulos, whom they intended to offer as a sacrifice to their pagan gods. Through the prayers of the saint the Lord saved Theodoulos, and the monk found him with the bishop of Emessa, who had ransomed the young man from the barbarians. And this bishop ordained both of them as presbyters. After ordination they returned to Sinai, where they asceticised together until the death of the Monk Nilos.

Icon: the "Merciful" ("Kykkiotisa", "Milostivaya")

Commemorated on November 12, December 26_ Julian calendar

The Icon of the Mother of God, named the "Merciful" ("Kykkiotisa", "Milostivaya"): This icon was written, according to tradition, by the holy Evangelist Luke. It received its name "Kykkiotisa" from Mount Kykkos, on the Island of Cyprus. Here it was situated in an imperial monastery, in a church named after it. Before its coming to the Island of Cyprus, the wonderworking image of the Mother of God long wandered about through the will of God: at first it was situated in one the earliest Christian communities in Egypt, and then it was taken to Constantinople, where it remained during the time of Alexius Comnenius (end-XI to early-XII Century). During these years it was revealed to the hermit-elder Isaiah through a miraculous sign, that by his efforts the wonderworking image written by the Evangelist Luke would come to reside on the Island of Cyprus. The elder exerted much toil into fulfilling the Divine revelation. When the icon of the Mother of God arrived on the island, many a miracle was worked by it. From of old through the present to the monastery of the Mother of God the Merciful there throng those from every side afflicted by every sort of infirmity, and they receive healing through faith. In the miraculous power of the holy icon believe not only Christians, but also those of other faith who hearken to it in misfortune and illness. Inexhaustible is the mercy of the MostHoly Mother of God, Mediatrix for all the suffering, and Her image accurately bears the name, the "Merciful". The wonderworking "Kykkiotisa" Icon of the Mother of God possesses a remarkable peculiarity: from what time-period is unknown, but it is covered by an half shroud from the upper left corner to the lower right, such that the faces of the Mother of God and the Divine Infant no one is able to make bold to see. The depiction of the Mother of God appears to be of the Hodegetria type, as is also the Smolensk Icon of the Mother of God. The head of the Mother of God is adorned with a crown. At present a copy of this icon is particularly venerated at the women's Nikol'sk monastery in the city of Mukachev.

Luke 13:1-9

1There were present at that season some who told Him about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. 2 And Jesus answered and said to them, "Do you suppose that these Galileans were worse sinners than all other Galileans, because they suffered such things? 3 I tell you, no; but unless you repent you will all likewise perish. 4 Or those eighteen on whom the tower in Siloam fell and killed them, do you think that they were worse sinners than all other men who dwelt in Jerusalem? 5 I tell you, no; but unless you repent you will all likewise perish. 6 He also spoke this parable: "A certain man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard, and he came seeking fruit on it and found none. 7 Then he said to the keeper of his vineyard, 'Look, for three years I have come seeking fruit on this fig tree and find none. Cut it down; why does it use up the ground?' 8 But he answered and said to him, 'Sir, let it alone this year also, until I dig around it and fertilize it. 9 'And if it bears fruit, well. But if not, after that you can cut it down.'

Thessalonians 2:13-3:5

13But we are bound to give thanks to God always for you, brethren beloved by the Lord, because God from the beginning chose you for salvation through sanctification by the Spirit and belief in the truth,14 to which He called you by our gospel, for the obtaining of the glory of our LordJesus Christ.15 Therefore, brethren, stand fast and hold the traditions which you were taught, whether by word or our epistle. 16 Now may our Lord Jesus Christ Himself, and our God and Father, who has loved us and given us everlasting consolation and good hope by grace, 17 comfort your hearts and establish you in every good word and work.

1Finally, brethren, pray for us, that the word of the Lord may run swiftly and be glorified, just as it is with you, 2 and that we may be delivered from unreasonable and wicked men; for not all have faith. 3 But the Lord is faithful, who will establish you and guard you from the evil one. 4 And we have confidence in the Lord concerning you, both that you do and will do the things we command you. 5 Now may the Lord direct your hearts into the love of God and into the patience of Christ.

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runswith · 5 years ago

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Travel diary: Pamplona. Entry 8 – March 26, 2002

With Curtis having done el Camino de Santiago so many times, he’s fairly knowledgeable about it -- extremely, even excessively knowledgeable compared to someone like me.

As we stood in Sunday morning sunshine, Curtis talking about el Camino, two people hiking the trail toiled up the grade in our direction. Across the small road, off in the other direction, the land spilled down and away. Nesting birds appeared from hillside bushes, making short, swift flights to nearby points, producing sharp bursts of song. Though the sun shone strong and warm, a cool breeze blew -- Curtis had encouraged me to leave my jacket in the car, I found myself glad I had it on and pulled it tightly around me as I peered off across the countryside.

Back in the car, we drove further west of Pamplona. Several miles along, Javier hung a left and sped down another two-lane, flanked by fields and the occasional spread of vineyard, until we approached a turnoff for a small church that sat amid acres of fields, la iglesia de Santa Maria de Eunate. Javier turned in, guiding the car to a small parking area, pulling in by a pair of porta-potties, them looking a bit out of context there in the middle of nowhere but logical considering the number of visitors the place received.

The church: a lovely stone structure, small in diameter with a high domed roof that gives it a sense of great space. Built in the second half of the twelfth century, appearing at once austere and complex in structure. The small windows had no glass, no surprise given where and when the church was constructed -- instead, they’re covered with slabs of marble cut thinly enough that light passes through. The church is surrounded by a portico, nearby sits another building constructed of stone, a refuge for hikers making the pilgrimage, where they can find a shower, get some sleep.

On our arrival, the only other people about were three young women who seemed to carefully avoid us. As we walked back to the car, other vehicles pulled in, discharging people, changing the atmosphere drastically with noise and motion. I was glad we were leaving.

Javier drove back out to the original two-lane, heading further west to the town of Puente la Reina, a pueblo with at least three churches -- all Catholic, natch. I was taken into two, both several centuries old -- one austere, the other extravagantly elaborate -- both on a long street that ran from the east end of town to the river at the town’s west side and the bridge that gives the town its name. Built in, I think, the 15th century. Old, beautiful, nice to walk across, providing nice views of the old town on one side, green hills and flowering almond trees on the other.

The morning sunlight had strengthened, the temperature edged upward to jacket-divesting levels as the day tilted toward noon. We walked back toward the car along a different street -- wider, relatively busy -- passing the third church as we left the river behind, I mulled over how it felt to be among so much Catholicism, past and present, from the perspective of having grown up in it and ditched it the day I turned 18.

From there we traveled west to a stretch of el Camino that ran along the course of an old Roman road, cobbled and crossing an original Roman bridge, out in the middle of countryside, in a ravine off the two-lane where trees were showing green and birds called. As I moved ahead of Curtis and Javier, two hikers passed -- young women, both sporting huge packs, one of which had two or three pieces of washed clothing spread across it to dry in the sun as they walked. Curtis began chatting with them, when I returned from enjoying the near-total quiet off across the bridge it turned out they were college-age American women -- one from Tennessee, one from Illinois -- doing the pilgrimage and experiencing the contrast between what they’d imagined when they dreamed about it and the rigorous, sometimes disheartening reality of traversing mountainous, rural terrain with a full pack. Curtis gave them encouragement, some tips on stops they’d be making in the coming days, and they headed off.

Next: the town of Estella, the day’s final stop. A medieval pueblo, with old, narrow streets, large plazas, and a pretty, shallow river that wends through the heart of the town. Javier parked the car, we made our way up a long series of stairs to yet another church perched in the, by then, early afternoon sunlight. We passed through to the cloister, a sizable area of flowers, grass, flowers and a tree or two, sheltered by walls, surrounded and bisected by walkways. Quiet, with lots of old stonework. I would have been happy to remain there a while, as lack of sleep was becoming an increasingly major factor in my day. Curtis had also been up late -- later than me, I think, having far more fun -- also looked to be at less than optimum. Javier was fine, and when I got too quiet he made a point of chatting me up, explaining things or asking about my experience in Spain. Between that and the fact that he had volunteered to do the driving for the day, he went far beyond what would be expected of someone who had never met me before. An extremely considerate person with a generous, gentlemanly nature.

A mass had begun while we were outside, we couldn’t pass back through the church and so took a different stairway down to the street -- old, narrow, with vistas of sky and neighborhoods. We found our way to the center of the town, crowds of chatting, well-dressed locals milling in and out of restaurants/tabernas. We made our way into one, found a space at the bar, got something to drink, then went somewhere else to eat, a place off another narrow, quiet street. A long meal, punctuated by stretches of silence between which Curtis and Javier conversed, Javier now and then addressing some conversation in my direction, which I did my best to engage with. Afterward, we found our way through more narrow streets toward an old medieval footbridge we’d spotted earlier. The street that led us there -- old and, of course, narrow -- only permitted resident traffic, and at the end of a block that fed out onto a larger busier street, passage was blocked by a thick, squat metal column, maybe two feet high, planted in the pavement directly in the middle of the street. A car approached from the outside road, stopping by a box at the roadside where the driver produced a card and swiped it through a slot. A pause, then the column slowly sank into the pavement so the car could pass, after which it reappeared, regaining full height. Freudian traffic control.

We made our way across the bridge, trees and large sprawling expanses of bushes on either side of the river a bright, vibrant green in the early spring sun. Willow trees rose three or four stories into the air, trailing long branches thick with new leaves. Javier and Curtis had yet another ancient church or two in their sights, we made our way toward them though not into them (for which I gave silent thanks), settling down instead on some stone structures by the river to flop and get some sun. It was late afternoon by then, the town had the feel of a place slowly dealing with the coming reality of returning to the workweek. Couples were out, two groups of people came together not far from us, talking, then headed off in the opposite direction from which we’d come and disappeared. We eventually pulled ourselves together and returned to the car, walking along a stretch of el Camino which included an old, well-kept building that functioned as the town’s sanctuary for pilgrims.

As we neared the car, the snug street opened out into a small plaza that fronted a park and two old buildings, one of which apparently housed the local equivalent of a circuit court. Paint had been hurled against the door and the facade of the building, leaving splashes of red, yellow and green, the colors of the crest of Euskadi, the Basque Country. As we stepped out into the plaza, I glanced into the windows of the other building we passed, into a room filled with old, old furniture, including what appeared to be an ancient canopy bed, draped with mosquito netting.

At that moment, we became aware of a car coming in reverse along the narrow street that faced us, coming fast, the gearbox whining loudly, the rear end jerking back and forth as it approached, tires squealing. It skidded into the plaza where the driver hit the brakes, spraying gravel before changing gears then gunning his way through a loud, aggressive three-point turn, almost hitting me at one point, the afternoon air suddenly thick with the odor of testosterone. The driver: a truculent, macho 20-something whose behavior had Curtis hooting and mocking him in English. My last image of Estella.

An hour and a half later I found myself gazing out a window of an Iberia airliner. My final view of Pamplona, from a plane angling up away from the ground: a line of wind turbines ranged along a ridge of hills to the north of the airport, extending off toward the Pyrenees and the border with France, white rotor blades turning lazily in afternoon sunlight.

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zurichtooslo · 5 years ago

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Day 27, 16th Sept, Parma

Matthew and I on the train to Modena. It was only half an hour from Parma. The trains are all good, cheap and often. We are just travelling on the regional trains at the moment so you can buy a ticket on the day.

Nice entrance into an apartment courtyard.

Main Street towards the Ducal palace

Ducal palace and square. Modena seemed a lot more substantial and grander than Parma. They both have about the same population.

Nice coloured buildings on the square.

Into to the porticos which are all over the city. A great design feature in hot weather.

Colourful street.

The Ghirlandina Tower through the buildings.

Walkway between the Duomo and tower.

The main square of Modena. These buildings all have World Heritage Status. The Duomo, the Ghirlandina tower and town hall. Unfortunately it was a Monday when we were there so the tower was closed and the Duomo closed for four hours in the middle of the day.

Modena had a big Markethall which are always interesting to walk around.

Balsamic vinegar is made around the area of Modena. That is what they are famous for. This display was in the Markethall.

There were porticos all over the city which made it much more pleasant to walk around under shade.

The Teatro Comunale which was built in 1833-41.

Pavarotti was born in Modena and preformed in this theatre often.

The Botanical gardens in Modena. They looked like they could Bodoniano with a bit more care and attention. Tourism is a big industry in Italy but I don’t think the economy is going that well.

The roof of the Ferrari Museum. It is supposed to look like an engine.

The outside of the museum. It is an interesting looking building.

Enzo Ferrari’s first racing car. Lots of things to buy but all very expensive.

Matthew getting into the spirit of the Ferrari team.

Formulae 1 car

Matthew and I reflected in the mirrored walls of the Ferrari Museum. I look quite thin. The pink building used to be Ferrari’s home.

Just love all these porticos and the light patterns that are made.

Typical Italian farmhouse.

Lots of vineyards around this area. Something I didn’t know. Balsamic vinegar is made from grapes.

Back in Parma for the night so we walked back to the main square for dinner. We have been clocking up a few miles these last few days.

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thatwhichdoesnotsuffer · 6 years ago

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On Finding Love

Long has this clown been accustomed to hermit's caves and hermit's wisdom, to the cold snows of austere mountains and the solemnities of isolation and solitude. It is no exaggeration to state that I have been a great growling bear with succulent stores of honey and ambrosia, yet no one worthy to give them... But fate has a way of rewarding the righteous, for those who have suffered the utmost, those accustomed to long, sleepless nights of vigil and the remembrance of glimmering stars. While other bears hibernate in their hunger from cold and loneliness, I have often found myself over-awake before the golden dawn of predilection and divine certainty. Despite being a clown, the redemption of marriage has a way of finding its way into the woeful penitent, one who has truly become wise from his folly and who has patiently stood at the door of the divine mysteries. Often has the tempter held the keys of paradise before this penitent clown, jingling and jangling the promise of salvation before my tired soul. In his compassion, he allowed vile women to hunt and test my most secret sentiments. When afflicted and offered the weeds, promiscuity, and filth of uncultivated gardens, I have only longed for and stayed true to chaste roses, gravestones, and the joyful benediction of funeral crosses. But worthy have I found this buyer now, who was never willing to buy his wife in a poke. Since truly, to wait for the perfect matrimony through years of penitence and solitude is not difficult for one accustomed to the anvil and the hammer... While to the uninitiated it might seem extreme, I have been offered seven wedding rings before the altars of the wise―all for one wife. Inscribed within the circumference of each were igneous words and golden embers from the book of life: “One who loves more, one who loves better.” And while armored against the extremities of lustful women, I have learned to prepare for the greater armory, the forge of the soul, whereby the godlike hammer, in ecstatic prayer and heavenly war hymns, strikes the supplicant steel with adamantine love. Only those who have been accustomed to the frost of tall mountains can appreciate the fiery violence and terrifying friction of the spirit that knows how to turn vinegar into honey! And so I have searched for you through somber woods and dead marshlands, in sulfurous valleys and blighted wastes, where the poison of desire inebriates and drives weak men into madness. To find you, I have found certainty in vulnerability and hands calloused from difficult climbing, yet none so calloused as to soften and melt from your gentleness... If I have seemed as a frowning, growling bear chilled from snows and severe mountain heights, it is only so that I could melt through the fires and promise of your embrace... For long have I waited for you to whom I was promised, and in being so used to being wounded from poisonous arrows, I only waited for your honey to heal me... Truly your sincerity and purity have ignited the candelabra of my heart, wherein I kneel in prayer to your divinity. For unlike the all-too-many, the superfluous, whose lustful grins and intoxicated eyes sing of turbid pools of stagnation and pollution, I have only seen your tranquil and serene waters golden with smiles of confirmation and the happiness of guiding stars. Your chaste glances speak to me of gardens where rivers flow, as swans swim and sing in holy duets before the choruses and wedding chambers of the gods. When I have gazed into your being and the profound well of your pristine waters, I have only been able to confirm the light of amethysts and carbuncles, rubies and diamonds whose jewels make even the angels prostrate in humility and longing. Your pure kisses awaken my memories of luxurious porticoes and the lush gardens of sacred temples, wherein reside the murmuring of chaste fountains and divine sculptures. We lock hands in holy embrace whenever we traverse such vegetation, which bloom with fertile promises. Such immaculate flowers always bless our union in their simplicity and perfection! And when you enfold me in the silence and august secrecy of the wise, I can only sing as a warrior in the sacred land of the Helens, celebrating the happiness and perfection of bright eternities within your eyes. Where before I was sterile and barren from drunken nights and the heart-wrenching emptiness of reckless abandon, you turn even the dead wood of my tree of life into flaming cinders, inspiring and enlivening my heart with the fires of a holy matrimony. Weak and feeble in my loins and knees, you taught me how to rise with strength towards the battlefront and promontory of sacred combat. You awaken the full conflagration of my chaste love and devour my desires through divine holocaust. What does he know of love if he did not come to despise precisely what he loved? You teach me to carry my dead ashes up the mountain, so as to scatter my past before the four winds! Truly you are my muse, my benediction, and my rose. You flower upon the cross of our shared tombstone and make it bright crimson as awakened steel, the perfect bed and resting place of the alchemist. You teach me to love your god with reverence and spotless, humble offerings. When I hold you and caress your fertile skin beneath my unyielding hands, we truly walk together beneath the stone archways of verdant vineyards and hallowed gardens. Within such a paradise, only the beautification of white sheets and unblushing nakedness bless our covenant! How often have I eaten the forbidden fruit of desire and sexual passion, only to be disillusioned and bitten by the serpentine poison of addiction and sorrow! Yet when we are together, conserving the waters of life with the utmost stainlessness and attention, I only know the voluptuousness, tempests, and raging fires of the spirit, the perfect fermentation of refuse and decay into the inebriating wine of alchemy. Truly Ding Dong has met his match, his partner, his perfect compliment. She is as serious in her silliness as he is silly in his seriousness, since she truly knows how to awaken this sepulchral, growling bear from his cold meditations and frigid contemplation on mountain heights. Through sweet laughter and the light of a forgotten god, she lifts the lamp of higher paths for him, as he holds their wedding lamp above their head in consecration of their marriage. And just as the midnight sun has shined with immaculate splendor upon our happiness, so shall I christen my wife by the name “Ding Ding,” and let her poetry speak to my soul. Often has Ding Ding spoken to me in happy reprimand, “Truly I thought you were cold from your mountain heights, only to find that your frigid stone is a mountain of red-hot iron, a volcano of divine fire!” So have we inspired the sparks of an embryonic love into a phoenix of igneous powers, which began with a flash of delectable sympathy, was substantiated with infinite tenderness, and is synthesized through supreme adoration. Truly she teaches me how to be born again with the mind of supreme compassion and enlightenment for the benefit of all beings! Blessed are those who love our union, for they comprehend us. And blessed are those who are jealous of our union, for they do not comprehend us. May our bliss inspire even our worst enemies to join us in celebrating the Most High, for his luminosity gravitates to our union as the winged Mercury to the sun, blessing all those who fall under his path. Such a happiness joins itself in indestructible union as a serpentine ring of a perfect matrimony, which shines upon the hand of my eternal beloved.

#poetry #ding dong #spirituality #esotericism #mysticism #sacred sexuality #the perfect matrimony

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rabbitcruiser · 2 days ago

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St. Francis Winery & Vineyards, CA (No. 6)

Our commitment to showcase the best of Sonoma extends to our Tasting Room, which pairs our award-winning wines with the most breathtaking view in Sonoma Valley, and to our ZAGAT-recommended Wine & Food Pairing, which has earned worldwide praise from legions of fans and was voted “#1 in America” in 2013 and 2015 by Open Table diners. Our Wine & Food Pairing was also a top finalist in the 2024 SFGATE Best of the Bay Area Awards, alongside other notable restaurants. We source the freshest seasonal produce, succulent local meats, and sustainably harvested seafood from local purveyors, ensuring an unforgettable farm-to-table Wine & Food Pairing experience. Additionally, our on-site herb garden provides our culinary team with fresh herbs used to elevate each dish, offering guests a true taste of Sonoma Valley’s rich agricultural traditions.

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tonkiillinois · 2 years ago

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Domus aureus rome

#DOMUS AUREUS ROME FREE#

The Golden House itself is a wonder in terms of architectural elegance and was filled with prized paintings and sculptures, many of which were collected or confiscated by the emperor in various provinces of the Roman empire. There he could stroll and feast with guests whilst enjoying beautiful works of art.

#DOMUS AUREUS ROME FREE#

The huge complex of the Domus Aurea was designed for the emperor’s enjoyment in his free time. The pavilions on the Oppian Hill alone consisted of 200 rooms, many of them rediscovered by archaeologists, and which you will explore on our visit to Rome's most exclusive site. In the main courtyard of the Domus stood a colossal statue, representing Nero as the Sun God. The buildings were surrounded by cultivated land, vineyards, pastures and forests filled with all manner of domestic and wild animals. Much more than a house (domus in Latin), it was a city within a city that unfolded around a vast artificial lake, the Stagnus Neronis (where the Colosseum would later be built). Nero's main residence was on the Palatine, and from there an incredible number of buildings branched off which are still connected today via giant underground arcades (such as Nero’s Cryptoporticus, still accessible today and part of his Domus Transitoria on the Palatine Hill, which was destroyed by fire in 64 AD). The Domus Aurea was an enormous complex of buildings, courtyards and gardens that extended from the Palatine Hill to the Esquiline Hill in Rome, covering the whole of the Oppian Hill - that’s an area of over 90 hectares! The Fascinating History of Nero's Golden House We only offer this tour of Nero’s Golden House on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. We offer two special experiences on this tour: an incredible exploration of the colossal spaces of Emperor Nero’s villa, the famous Domus Aurea (Golden House), recently reopened to the public in a remarkable state of conservation, that gives you the chance to relive the splendour of the palace's rooms, gardens and incredible porticos. Your tour begins immediately after a brief introduction to the site's historical context provided by our archaeologist. Don your hard hat and you are ready to start your journey! Tour Description Discover Ancient Rome's Best Kept Secret

#Domus aureus rome

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thewasteland2 · 3 years ago

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Cagliari (Sardinia). First project civil service of Ales: "Castello Barumeli and Donna Violante". Arch of Palabanda and courageous volunteers. The historical excursion to Cagliari, after a break at "Black sun 2", also in the San Francesco di Stampace area, ends with a visit to the arch of Palabanda, a historical site, disliked by many detractors of Sardinia, as well as of its history. On October 31, 1812 (s'annu de sa famini - the year of hunger) for a betrayal was thwarted the last "emotion" (which in Sardinian has also the sense of revolt) to restore independence to Sardinia, definitively lost in the 15th century. The Jacobin club of Palabanda - the most radical of Cagliari - had met in the garden-vineyard of the lawyer Salvatore Cadeddu. The field, from the aforementioned arch, extended throughout the current botanical garden. It must be said that a memorial plaque was placed on the site on the Course (see post dated 1 May 2016), bearing the bilingual inscription "Portico of the Sardinian patriots, martyrs of Palabanda"; it was vandalized in recent years and despite promises, it has not yet been restored. #liked #club #lawyer #lady #lost #sense #break #vineyard #cagliari #sardinia #creperie #arch #emotion #restore #independence #radical #serviziocivile #garden #palabanda #traveling #visiting #instatravel #travelling #tourism #instatraveling #travelgram #travelingram #massimopistis #sovVERSIvi #estremisti @rotaryclubcagliarianfiteatro @monumentiaperti @blacksun2 @GruppoInterventoGiuridico @emergenzacultura Information for the purchase of my new book "Estremisti!": the book at a cost of 12.00 euros (120 pages), can be ordered in bookstores (ISBN 978-88-591-5719-9 - Publisher Aletti) or online on the page http://www.alettieditore.it/emersi/2019/pistis.html from the link below. https://www.instagram.com/maximopistis/p/CZIB4U-LaI_/?utm_medium=tumblr

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mikyit · 3 years ago

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With the #Porticoes of #Bologna 🏛️ recently recognized, #Italy jumps to the 58 properties inscribed on the #WorldHeritageSites 🌍 - Sacri Monti of #Piedmont and Lombardy (2003) - 18th-Century Royal Palace at #Caserta with the Park, the Aqueduct of Vanvitelli, and the San Leucio Complex (1997) - Arab-Norman #Palermo & Cathedral Churches of #Cefalú and #Monreale (2015) - Archaeological Area & Patriarchal Basilica of #Aquileia (1998) - Archaeological Area, #Agrigento (1997) - Archaeological Areas of #Pompei, #Herculaneum and Torre Annunziata (1997) - #Assisi, Basilica of San Francesco (2000) - Botanical Garden (Orto Botanico), #Padua (1997) - Castel del Monte (1996) - Cathedral, Torre Civica & Piazza Grande, #Modena (1997) - Church Santa Maria delle Grazie & “The Last Supper” by #LeonardodaVinci (1980) - #Cilento & Vallo di Diano National Park, Archeological Sites of #Paestum & Velia, Certosa di Padula (1998) - City of #Verona (2000) - City of #Vicenza & #PalladianVillas of Veneto (1994,1996) - #CostieraAmalfitana (1997) - Crespi d'Adda (1995) - Early Christian Monuments, #Ravenna (1996) - Etruscan Necropolises, #Cerveteri & #Tarquinia (2004) - #Ferrara, City of the Renaissance & Po Delta (1995,1999) - #Genoa: Le Strade Nuove & Palazzi dei Rolli (2006) - Historic Centre, #Florence (1982) - Historic Centre, #Naples (1995) - Historic Centre of #Rome, Properties of Holy See in that City Enjoying - Extraterritorial Rights & San Paolo Fuori le Mura (1980,1990) - Historic Centre, #SanGimignano (1990) - Historic Centre, #Siena (1995) - Historic Centre, #Pienza (1996) - Historic Centre, #Urbino (1998) - #Ivrea, industrial city of the 20th century (2018) - Late Baroque Towns,Val di #Noto (Sicily) (2002) - Le Colline del #Prosecco, Conegliano e Valdobbiadene (2019) - #Longobards in Italy. Places of Power (568-774 A.D.) (2011) - #Mantua & Sabbioneta (2008) - Medici Villas & Gardens in #Tuscany (2013) - #Padua ’s fourteenth-century fresco cycles (2021) - Piazza del Duomo, #Pisa (1987) - #Portovenere, Cinque Terre (1997) - Prehistoric Pile Dwellings, Alps (2011) - Residences of the Royal House of Savoy (1997) - Rhaetian Railway in the #Albula / #Bernina (2008) - Rock Drawings in #Valcamonica (1979) - Su Nuraxi di #Barumini (1997) - #Syracuse, Rocky Necropolis Pantalica (2005) - The Trulli, #Alberobello (1996) - The Great Spa Towns of Europe (2021) - The Porticoes, #Bologna (2021) - The Sassi & Park of the Rupestrian Churches of #Matera (1993) - Val d'Orcia (2004) - Venetian Works of Defence, Stato da Terra – Stato da Mar (2017) - #Venice & its Lagoon (1987) - Villa Adriana (Tivoli) (1999) - Villa d'Este, #Tivoli (2001) - Villa Romana del Casale (1997) - Vineyard Landscape of #Piedmont: Langhe-Roero & Monferrato (2014) - Ancient and Primeval Beech Forests of the #Carpathians (2007,2011,2017,2021) - Isole #Eolie (Aeolian Islands) (2000) - Monte San Giorgio (2003,2010) - Mount #Etna (2013) - The #Dolomites (2009)

#WorldHeritageList #beautifulitaly #Italy #PorticoesofBologna

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noromannet-blog · 5 years ago

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10 amazing places to visit in France

The most beautiful villages in France are because they seem to have frozen over time. Romanesque bridges, medieval castles... There is France for every type of traveler. If you want to opt for the classic and get away from cities full of people like Paris, we propose a list of the 10 villages in France that you must visit. The only bad thing is that you may not want to return from this trip to the past.

1. Eguisheim

If we look for beautiful places in France it is simple that Eguisheim appears to us in the first place. And it is that of all the French towns, this one stands out thanks to the curious disposition of its streets, which surround the castle in concentric circles. Walking through its cobbled streets is to do it on a floor full of history. You will fall in love with its beautiful and nostalgic houses, decorated with fabric, windows, and balconies made with wood. Its central square, which houses a beautiful fountain, and the castle of the counts of Eguisheim give it a well-deserved title as one of the most beautiful villages in Europe. In the month of August, the stork party and the vineyard party stand out.

2. La Roque Gageac

This lovely region is one of the essential places to see in France. Located in Perigord, in the Department of Dordogne, it stands out above all its construction: it is raised on a cliff on the banks of the Dordogne River. This causes it to be surrounded by a landscape like no other. It is common in French culture that people have that air of nostalgic story that takes us to another time. This is what happens in the Roque Gageac, a prototype that has the title of being one of the most charming villages in France. This corner invites all its visitors to get lost among its streets, enjoy its thick vegetation and admire the small church that stands on the rest of the valley.

3. Mont Saint-Michel

Mont Saint-Michel is one of the most visited villages in France in recent years. A place of worship, a fortress, a fearsome prison... This is what has made it a strong claim for the most daring tourists. It has more than 14 centuries of history and has had a great presence in French culture thanks to acclaimed writer Victor Hugo. It is a small island where a medieval abbey declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO in 1979 is erected and proud. This sanctuary has around it a small city, which makes the whole one of the medieval villages from France more curious. So much is its success, that every year it receives more than 3 million tourists, being the second most visited country.

4. Conques

One of the most beautiful places in France is found in the town of Conques. Located at the confluence of two rivers, it stands as a completely natural amphitheater very close to the Lot Valley. Conques is history, cultural life and, above all, very traditional. Its monastery emerged in the eighth century and has relics of Saint Foy taken from Agen in 866. Thus the town became a place of pilgrimage, as well as an important step on the road to Santiago de Compostela, which is one of the villages of France that we found near Spain. The town is located around the abbey and offers beautiful views of half-timbered houses and endless gastronomic specialties.

5. Barfleur

Located in the Normandy region, we find Barfleur, one of the best villages in France to be near the sea. It has a long sea route due to its fishing tradition. In addition, it is recognized immediately by its picturesque granite houses. It is no coincidence that it is included in practically all the lists of the most beautiful villages in France, since both its small port and the seventeenth-century church that crowns it, form a most charming set. Very close to this town we find the tip of Barfleur, a lighthouse 71 meters high where you can enjoy a spectacular view of Cotentin.

6. Rocamadour

Sacred city and place of pilgrimage. These are the two adjectives with which the French people of Rocamadour are popularly known. It is located on a limestone cliff, from where the Alzou canyon dominates majestically. In fact, it is one of the most visited villages in France next to Mont Saint-Michel. It is mandatory to visit the chapel of Notre-Dame, where a statue of the Black Virgin of the 12th century rests. Also the tomb of St. Amadour. Everything in this city has that religious air. The Museum of Sacred Art, for example, houses an extensive collection of religious works that can be admired. Another hobby for travelers is to enjoy mineral concretions and cave paintings of the Cave of Wonders, which is 20,000 years old.

7. Najac

In addition to being one of the best places to visit in France, we must bear in mind that Najac stands out for having fewer than one hundred inhabitants. It is another of the French medieval villages where its picturesque houses coexist with the castle in the background, on top of the hill. A landscape that offers beautiful views, especially from the castle tower, from where you can admire the entire town. The origins of this fortress date back to the year 1100. On the cornice of the hill, we find only one street. Through it, you access the main square, dating from the fifteenth century. You will recognize it for its historic arcades, architectural tradition of the people.

8. Albí

Albí is one of those villages to see in southern France to enjoy all the charm of the area. It is located on the banks of the Tarn and stands out for having an architectural complex worthy of admiration and which makes it one of the most charming villages we can find in the south of the country. When strolling through the historic center, we discover the lanes filled with nostalgia, as well as the beautiful houses made of brick and half-timbered. Among all this, some Renaissance palaces are built, such as the Enjalbert House or the Reynès Palace. If you escape for a cultural visit, nothing better than to approach the Berbie Palace and enjoy the Toulouse-Lautrec museum, where there are a lot of works by the artist, born in the village.

9. Belcastel

Another of the villages to visit in southern France is Belcastel. It is a small corner where only 48 inhabitants live. There are settlements in this area since the 5th century and it also has its own 11th-century castle. From its construction, the houses developed around them, forming that essence of a medieval town that captivates. Within a kilometer, we find "Le roc danglers". It is an archaeological site that is located on a rock and that served as a defensive fortress and storage to store the food collected by the inhabitants. From the 18th century, the town was losing its inhabitants. It was at that moment when the castle was abandoned and in ruins. Ideal to include it in your list if you plan to make a route through the villages of southern France.

10. Riquewihr

It has many points in its favor, but we can directly rate Riquewihr as the most beautiful town in France. It preserves intact its medieval past, which is easily visible when it sees its great wall still standing. The town is divided into two separate parts, although the old part is accessed through a beautiful portico located in the Town Hall. It has a pleasant climate practically all year. Its Alsatian-style houses are surrounded by vineyards and always decorated with endless flowers. It is one of the villages that is part of the Wine Route, which gives it even more charm. It is 15 kilometers from Colmar, another of the most beautiful villages in France where you can taste a good broth. Read the full article

#bestplacestotravel #FRANCE #News #placestogo #placestogonearme #placestotravel #placestovisit #placestovisitnearme #Top #touristattractions #VILLAGESOFFRANCE #WHATTOSEEINFRANCE

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