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scots-gallivanter · 19 days ago

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FIFTEEN

You can have your Greek islands, son. Girvan had one of the cleanest beaches you’d get. And sometimes you could count two dozen fishing boats hooked up to the pier, and boxes stacked sky high. On top of that you’d Paddy’s Milestone out on the water. What more could you want? Rare chips they were, into the bargain?

Andy Campbell, my grandfather (c. 1980)

THE SKY IS a tall, bright, nippy blue now, cracking to white at the edges. There is a soft marine roar, and I smell seaweed. Girvan’s gulls wheel about in their yellings today. Glaswegians used to sail ‘doon the watter’ for their summer sojourn in places such as Girvan, where they got to spend the weekend wearing Kiss Me Quick hats and feasting on candy floss. They fired guns with twisted barrels, rode on the dodgems, posed for Kodak cameras on the waltzers, and tried their luck at the slots. There were donkey rides on the sand, helter skelter, crazy golf, wall-to-wall one-armed bandits à la Brighton, a paddling pool and boat trips; and an attractive indoor swimming pool was built in 1972.

When Robert Heron travelled through Ayrshire, he saw low huts more like ‘caves dug in the earth than houses built upon it’, and there was no room at the inn for him.

‘Some whisky was brought us which tasted strongly of turpentine; and some pease bannock too tough to be eaten,’ he wrote in his Observations made on a journey through the Western Counties of Scotland (1793).

The coming of the railways in the 1850s made the Ayrshire coast more accessible to the central belt and encouraged the development of Girvan as a seaside resort with sandy beaches, cliffs and craggy outcrops. And it became prosperous enough. It isn’t Dodge City yet, but it is no longer flourishing: in 2021 its high street was voted the worst of 1,000 high streets and town centres in the UK. The survey was undertaken by a retail real estate consultancy, which publishes a ranking every two years and bases its conclusions on shop vacancy rates, and the number of discount stores and ‘low value’ units like bookmakers. They call it their ‘vitality ranking’.

And yet Girvan, at least the site of it, was once the location of Knockushion (the Hill of Justice), the courts of the ancient jurisdiction of Carrick, where Robert the Bruce judged, ruled, and granted charters. (Ironically, the motte hill that once marked the region’s importance is long lost to town development. However, in the 1960s the pillar that marked the site was removed to the public gardens of Knockushion House in Knockushion Street and restored.)

From Girvan harbour today we have a ringside view of Paddy’s Milestone. Ailsa Craig, its Sunday name, is a volcanic pluton that looks both comical and creepy. It sits on the meniscus of the Atlantic, halfway between Belfast and Glasgow as the seagull flies: a giant Christmas pudding or a sinking oil rig, or the head of some monster emerging from the deep. The ancients believed witches had dropped Ailsa Craig from the sky. Heron found it ‘covered on the summit with verdure; having a well of fresh water; stocked with goats and rabbits; and frequented by innumerable sea fowls’. Keats wrote a sonnet about this ‘craggy ocean pyramid’ with its ‘sea fowls’ screams’. His editor, Lord Houghton ventured: ‘That fine object appeared first to them [Keats and his companion, Brown] in the full sunlight like a transparent tortoise asleep upon the calm waters; then as they advanced, displaying its lofty shoulders, and as they still went on, losing its distinctness in the mountains of Arran and the hills of Cantire that rose behind it.’

Sadly, Burns, though an Ayrshire man, only mentioned Ailsa Craig in passing (his Duncan Grey tells us, Meg was ‘deaf as Ailsa Craig’). It is said, though, that, when he married Jean Armour, Burns ordered bird feathers from the island for a new bed. In Sweeney Astray – Seamus Heaney’s translation of an ancient Irish legend – Suibhe, a king of Dalriada, is cursed by St Ronan and is destined to fly around the world naked and insane. He spends upwards of a month on Ailsa Craig lamenting the absurdity of life:

‘I tread the slop/ And foam of beds, / Unlooked for,

Penitential/, And imagine treelines/ Somewhere beyond,

A banked-up, soothing, / Wooded haze.’

Ailsa is a sanctuary for many thousands of guillemots, fulmars, kittiwakes and razorbills. It has Europe’s largest gannet colony. Puffins used to be abundant, and they are making a comeback after the descendants of rats that had swum across from a Swedish cargo ship that foundered in 1971 were destroyed in the 1990s.

The island was owned by Crossraguel Abbey in the early 1400s, and misbehaving monks were banished from there to here to reflect on their deeds. There’s a ruined castle on Ailsa too that was built by the Hamilton clan as a bulwark against the Spanish armada. It became a haven for Roman Catholics escaping the rigours of the Reformation, and later a prison. Granite was mined on Ailsa Craig from the early 1800s until 1971 for kerb stones and curling stones. (One factory in Mauchline, Ayrshire, is licensed to extract from here; and Wales is the only other source of the microgranite that goes into the business end of curling stones.)

Ailsa is now uninhabited, a ghost of an island occasionally explored by tourists from the mainland, who come to look from somewhere that is used to being looked at. They come in small pleasure boats that ply from Girvan, Ballantrae and further afield. When you land, you’re in for an afternoon in an open-air museum that fluctuates from forlorn to fascinating.

A derelict winching station, windowless. The ruins of the engine room for past quarrying works. All seized up. A capstan left to disintegrate. Rusted skeletons of old rail track with their weathered sleepers. The bones of a bogie line heavily weeded; they hauled coal along it to the lighthouse (now solar-powered).

A branch line leads to a disused gasworks, eaten by rust. The tracksman’s house is crumbling. The foghorns are long voiceless. No visitor should underestimate the climb to the summit of the Craig. The drops are steep and deep, and I’ve just read that a young lady once fell over the cliff near Craig Na’an; but her petticoat caught the wind and acted as a parachute. All she sustained was broken bones.

The island has changed hands several times: the late Jack Bruce, who was bassist with Cream, bought Ailsa Craig in 1969, but sold it to James Gulliver, the retail baron, in 1976. The Marquis of Ailsa put it up for sale in 2014 but couldn’t get a buyer. The RSPB now has a lease on it until 2050, and Glasgow businessman Bobby Sandhu owns the lighthouse keepers’ cottages. The authorities turned down his plan to turn Ailsa Craig into a five-star hotel complex!

As I look at alluring Ailsa from Girvan seafront, I wonder what my grandfather would have made of it all. A lot has changed ‘doon the watter’. Like Saltcoats, Rothesay, and other once-popular resorts along the Clyde coast, Girvan’s fortunes declined in the 1960s and 1970s when cheap holidays to Spain and Greece became fashionable. The swimming pool closed suddenly in 2009 and was then, without consultation, demolished, although a multi-million-pound leisure centre with a pool went up eight years later.

There is hope for regeneration. As I write, Girvan is one of eight communities in Scotland that will receive a total of £863,050 from Historic Environment Scotland and the National Lottery Heritage Fund for regeneration. Girvan hosts a traditional folk festival on the first weekend of May each year, a festival of light with a lantern procession and shorefront performance in October, and a Lowland Gathering in June. I thought I’d read on the chippie notice board that a psycho event would be held as part of that gathering, but it had stated ‘psychic’.

In an article in The Herald in 2015 Kevin McKenna argued that the beachfront was slowly coming alive again with concerts, dances and themed children’s shows:

‘Perhaps then, someone could wake up the staff of sleepy VisitScotland, which receives millions of pounds of our cash to promote our holiday destinations. On its website this is what it says about Girvan: ‘Girvan’s attractions include the Stumpy Tower, originally built as a prison and today displays fascinating historical exhibits. The McKechnie Institute is also found in Girvan’s town centre, as is a variety of restaurants, cafes and shops to enjoy’ The writer of that scrap of joyless, cheerless prose obviously got the job after several years working on Tirana: The Wilderness Years.’

Come back, Fifth Dimension, all is forgiven. Staid Girvan landed that strange tourist attraction in the Flower Power days. In 1969 Keith Albarn, the father of Blur’s Damon Albarn, designed a futuristic, fibreglass fun house. There had been several possible names for the black, blue, yellow, red and salmon-pink construction, including Coloured Plastic Dream, Dream Circus, Metal Orchid, and even Girvana. Tourists were apparently bedazzled and enthralled by the nod to psychedelia, and by a hippie environment of uncanny sounds, weird textures, glowing lights and fabulous colours within a series of sensory chambers or ‘wombs’. In a vox pop in the summer of ’69, one young woman told the Carrick Herald that she had been ‘a little nervous about what I might encounter in this weird place. I looked up and, to my great amazement, saw what looked to be a dalek … I continued to walk through these narrow passages which were lit up colourfully and I had a feeling of wonder and fear mingled together … I didn’t really know whether I was glad or not to get out’.

Another offered: ‘It looks ludicrous. No wonder the older people turn to each other and say, more teenage rubbish’.

Yet another respondent thought: ‘It looked like something out of Doctor Who or Quatermass, an alien craft which had landed from a parallel universe … I put off going inside it, mainly because it looked like it would be an overwhelming experience, something that would blow your mind … my [older] brother Alex had been round it by himself and came out crying!’

The Fifth Dimension Fun Palace lasted five years: a storm damaged it beyond repair, and it was consigned to landfill. In an article for the Shetland Times in 2012 Tom Morton, a native of Ayrshire, reported: ‘It was like Dark Side of the Moon made out of Lego, with soft furnishings by Timothy Leary. Two bob to get in. At 14, I was absolutely fascinated by it.

Two birds of the seagull family dive round a postbox as I wait for a bus out of Dodge. Onto the box a loyal burgher is duct-taping two crocheted effigies of Charles and Camilla. I watch one of the gulls ratch through a KFC carton. I wonder what my grandfather would have made of it all. I leave Girvan to its coronating.

#girvan #ailsa craig #ayrshire #crossraguel abbey #knockushion #seamus heaney #jack bruce #fun palace #fifth dimension #keith albarn

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amjustagirl · 3 years ago

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a sea of flowers in bloom: chapter 3

chapters: one.~ two.~ three.~ four.~ five.~ six.~ seven.~ eight.~ pairing: kita shinsuke x f!reader genre: angst, fluff wc: 4.5k warnings: none in this chapter

You get some reprieve from Kita Shinsuke’s charm when he insists you sleep in for the remaining few days of your trip, that your body needs the rest for your skin to pucker and stitch itself together, heal from the multitude of bruises. You agree readily - your body, including your ego, has been battered to bits.

But then he seems intent on killing your poor heart because he starts heaping attention on you.

“I’ve a surprise for you”, he says, ducking his head to you.

You open your mouth to question him, but he only responds by crouching down, unfolding the bundle in his arms to spill fluffy balls of sunshine onto your lap. Ducklings, all eager and chirping and extremely, exceedingly sweet.

“This is momo-chan”, he introduces a very plump looking duckling to you. She pecks your fingers but snuggles into the cradle of his. Possessive for a duckling but rightfully so, considering it’s him. A troop of curious, fluff balls trail behind her. You meet Ichigo-chan, named for strawberries, obaa-san’s favourite fruit because of the slightest pink tint to her downy feathers. Kaida-chan, the little dragon, the most daring of the pack of ducklings for staring down an overly curious neighbour’s dog. Maron-chan, little chestnut, for being picked up in the fall.

But regardless of their personalities, it’s clear that the ducklings, much like half the village, adore Kita Shinsuke to bits. They follow him around like he’s the leader of their troop, quack at him as if they expect him to quack back. You wonder if he might if you weren’t there.

“Learn yer manners”, he scolds them gently when they peck your fingers.

They just chirp at him, bemused, as if they can feel the lack of heat behind his words. You spend a happy afternoon in his orphanage for ducks run by a very dedicated nursemaid, carding through their soft feathers, chatting with him about each duckling’s quirks and personality, laughing at their antics as they tumble in and out of the water, fighting over Kita’s attention.

It’s the perfect afternoon, save for the fact that if you weren’t too afraid of the consequences of letting your lovesick heart loose, you would’ve swooned.

It doesn’t stop there. He roasts rice cakes with red bean filling for you, toasted with sesame seeds, packing it along to bring you out bird watching once you stop wincing when you pull on your boots. You spot green breasted pheasants, elegant white cranes, but your favourite is the grey heron with black tipped wings, and you make him laugh when you blurt that it reminds you of him.

“Herons are meant to bring good luck for a farmer.”

“Well”, you say, toasting him with a half eaten rice cake. “Perhaps this year your harvest will be exceptionally good.”

“Perhaps”, he replies, amused. “If so, I should offer it some fish as thanks.”

The heron perks up, as if it’s heard Kita’s words. You giggle. “I think he might like that.”

He even foregoes his usual evening jogs to sit on the porch by your side, pouring you steaming cups of tea and wrapping you in blankets to keep you warm. You don’t have the willpower to refuse or concoct some excuse to stay away from him, not when you convince yourself that you’re going to leave soon anyway, there’s no harm in indulging yourself.

“Are ya lookin’ forward to goin’ back?”

You try to smile but you can barely stop yourself from drooping. “Not really, no”, you answer, wistful, a little sad. “Thinking about it just makes me depressed.”

He leans back on his hands. “Don’t ya like city life?”

You sigh, mouth tilting downwards as he turns to look at you, eyes curious. The thought of heading back to your tiny apartment for one loosens your tongue, melancholy bitter in your mouth.

“It’s...okay I guess, but it can be lonely. You’re surrounded by people all the time, crammed on the streets, typing furiously beside you at work - heck, even at home you can’t really get away from your neighbours when they yell at each other through the walls.”

“Shouldn’t that make you feel less lonely?”

“Not really. Everyone around you is just rushing by, far too busy with work or their own families. It’s hard to make friends, meet people genuinely interested in you once you’re out of school. When you’re an adult, people you meet are just interested in what you do and what you can do for them - and that’s just sad, thinking that there are millions of people around you but no one would notice if you could disappear for good.”

He looks away, face tilted to the dying sun and you wonder if you’ve said too much.

“Sorry - I shouldn’t have said all that”, you apologise, and he shakes his head.

“It gets lonely on the farm too, sometimes.” He admits, voice low. “It’s just grandma and me most days, and it’s a long way from any of my old friends.”

“How d’you deal with it then?”

“I just keep busy with work.” He straightens his back, brushing dry grass from his knees. “There’s a lot to do around here.”

“Of course”, you laugh, very well acquainted with his work ethic by now. “That sounds exactly what you would do.”

You watch as the sun sets as it has for a thousand years before you, the night swallowing it up as it will continue to do so a thousand years after you. The stillness of dusk consumes your thoughts, shadows growing long as the last vestiges of light fades into the grass, the chill rising from the ground.

“Still”, he says, with a tilt of his mouth that’s too slight to be considered a smile. “I may be far away from the bright lights of the big city but if it helps, you may count me as a friend.”

You don’t dare to look at him.

“I’d like that”, you answer, heart a-flutter when he wishes you good night.

You are weak. Your heart will be your downfall.

Grandma Yumie is none too pleased on the day of your departure.

“Men are blind sometimes”, she pronounces when you bow politely to take your leave. “They don’t seem to notice what’s before their very eyes.”

“Obaa-san!” you cry, scandalised, whipping your head around to make sure if Kita is out in front, nowhere in the near vicinity.

“I never knew I had to say that about my own grandson”, she says, shaking her head so solemnly it almost makes you laugh. “He doesn’t know a good thing when it’s staring him right in the face.”

“Kita-san and I are just friends, obaa-san. Nothing more, nothing less”, you say, but there’s no chance of convincing her when you can’t even convince yourself.

“You should grab the bull by its horns”, she whispers, leaning forward with a wicked grin, and you nearly choke on your spit. “That way, maybe I’ll have him married off by next Spring.”

Please don’t give me ideas lest the gods smite me for being a damned liar.

“It’s really not like that. I don’t think he’s looking for love right now.”

“Is that so?” she tilts her head at you, eyes sharp. “I might be old but my eyes haven’t failed me, unlike Shin-chan’s.”

You try protesting further but she only reminds you that you’re welcome back anytime (for forever, if you please), ushering you outside to wave you farewell and cheekily remind Kita not to leave you until you’re safely on the train.

“Of course, obaa-chan”, he replies, the picture perfect obedient grandson, before you both set off in the truck, speeding through mountain roads lined with trees, He does as she bids, carrying your bags all the way onto the platform, waits with you patiently until the train pulls into the station.

“I guess this is goodbye”, you say. Perhaps now the health of your heart will improve.

“I suppose”, he answers, before adding as an afterthought - “I come into Osaka twice a month for business. If you’d like to meet a friend for dinner - ”

“Of course”, you interrupt, your heart hijacking control of your mouth. “Just not at Onigiri Miya, I’m dragged there more than enough already.”

“Your pick then”, he says amiably, with a half smile. “Though we could get a discount considering I’m business partners with Osamu.”

“It’s not worth it if I have to deal with Atsumu’s teasing.” You finally gain control of your mouth enough to snap it shut, your fear overriding your idiot heart. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to think much of it, simply helps to lift your bags onto the train.

He waves goodbye to you. You don’t stop smiling until he turns his back.

You knew that you’d be ambushed by your best friend the minute you walked into office. She doesn’t even do you the courtesy of getting you coffee before she’s peering at you from the top of your cubicle.

“Don’t ask if I’ve gotten into his pants because you know I haven’t and he’s not interested, so please can we leave it as that?”

“I didn’t mention anything about his pants - you did.” She sticks out her tongue at you, a habit she must’ve learnt from her daughter. Her eyes gleam. “I take it you’ve been fantasising about taking them off?”

She should’ve brought you coffee so you can fling it at her.

“We’re just friends” you begin, nose scrunching when she throws her head back in a laugh.

“That’s what they all say”, she says, reaching over the wall to your desk, snagging a post it note. “Here”, she slaps it on your desk after scribbling furiously on it. “These are the dates when Kita’s gonna be in Osaka next month.”

You stare down at the offending piece of paper, consider whether you should toss it in the trash (your mind is in favour of that), or snap a picture of it with your phone (your heart squeals and swoons). Kaiyo doesn’t allow you to decide when she bugs your secretary to insert the dates into your calendar in bright red font, sweet talks her into rearranging your schedule so you can keep those dates free.

Two weeks later Kita texts, asking if you’d like to have dinner. Your thumb slips, you text back yes before your face meets your keyboard.

Kaiyo cackles so loud she nearly scares your intern to death when you begrudgingly tell her why you can’t meet her for dinner. You know who to suspect when you open your drawers to find condoms, a whole pile of them. Your secretary refuses to meet your eye.

You love your best friend dearly, but at times you want to strangle her. You really do.

He listens to your request not to meet at Onigiri Miya in a bid to avoid Miya twins. It’s a bit pointless when Kaiyo is all-seeing, ever-knowing, at least in respect of your schedule vis a vis him, but at least you won’t run the risk of ruining Kita’s impression of you by getting into a shouting match with Atsumu.

His usual work shirt replaced by a soft sweater, neat slacks instead of loose linen pants. Your mouth is already dry - you should order some sake or you won’t last the night. Though sake might be a bad idea. Alcohol might loosen your tongue too much and heaven only knows what you might say if your mind isn’t fully engaged -

“You good?”

Like now. You’ve been waging an internal war within yourself that you don’t even notice that he’s been trying to get your attention for a while.

“Yes!” you snap to attention, smiling to try and cover up your moment of reverie. “How’re you, Kita-san?”

“Good”, he replies, scanning you once over to confirm that you’re truly okay before turning to the menu. “Have you decided what to order?”

You’d like to order him for take-away, but you shake your head, no. He’s patient with you, listens to you ramble about what’s good in this hole-in-the-wall izakaya you’ve frequented ever since you were a fresh faced graduate, before calling the waitress politely over, reciting your order perfectly to her.

Conversation with him flows easily enough, the setting might have changed but your two weeks together has given you enough to talk about. Obaa-chan is doing fine, the doctor gave her a clean bill of health, the ducklings seem to have imprinted onto him - to the lack of your surprise. The rice harvest is over after weeks of backbreaking work, and now he’s busy arranging to ship them out all over the country.

“Most of them go to Osaka, though. That’s why I’m here.”

That’s right. He’s here for business, not for you. But he’s decided to take your advice, build a guesthouse on an empty plot of land, though he’s a little unsure where to start.

“It’s a bit intimidating”, he admits. “I’ve got money saved up, but I don’t know if it’ll be enough.”

“Give me the details, and I’ll help you figure it out”, you tell him, resolving to pull all the strings you can, call in all the favours you have on hand for him.

He smiles at you gratefully, insists that he pick up the bill.

The rest of the night is spent discussing floor plans and bank loans, the choice of a contractor, the need to hire staff (obaa-san knows plenty of housewives in the village with older children who’d be willing to help out), the licenses he’d have to apply for, the overall feasibility of running a guesthouse.

“So much for my winter break”, he says almost ruefully. “Looks like I’ll be keeping myself busy. Might need to come into Osaka even more at this rate.”

Your traitorous heart likes the sound of that. “If you ever find yourself in Osaka and need a companion for dinner…”

He glances down at you with a slight smile. “I’ll know who to look for.”

He pays the bill despite your protests, walks you to the sidewalk for you to flag down a cab. The harsh street lighting betrays what the dim lights of the izakaya hides, the silver of a scar running down the left side of your face.

“It doesn’t seem to be healing completely”, he says, eyes tracing the puckered skin.

“I guess I’ll have a lasting souvenir of my trip”, you reply, flippant. Your mum shrieked when you video-called her, rattling on and on about how the unsightly scar would hurt your chances at finding a decent man. You should thank the scar then - you have no desire to be tied down to any of the idiots she’s been trying to introduce you to.

Kita frowns again, but doesn’t get to say more when a cab rumbles by, stops for you. “Well. Thank you”, he says, hands tucked in his pockets.“I really appreciate your help.”

“Not at all”, you fist at the lapels of your jacket. “That’s what friends do.”

He nods at you gratefully and insists on opening the door for you, waiting until the cab turns the corner before he leaves. You wonder if that means yes, but your quiet question is answered the day after next when Kaiyo drops by your desk with a tube of ointment, a too-wide grin on her face.

“From Kita”, she sing songs, dropping it into your palm.

You stare at the gift a little too long. But to Kaiyo’s credit, she reserves her cackling until she reaches her own desk.

You start messaging him, starting with a smooth thank you for the ointment and he replies rather dryly - it’s no problem at all, as if he’s unused to conducting conversations over text. The topic of his planned guesthouse is abused thoroughly by you as a pretext for chatting with him more and more - you walk him through all the bank loans he has to take, scrutinise fee quotes from contractors with him, complain incessantly at the swamp of bureaucratic nonsense that needs to be waded through.

“You’re working really hard. Have you even eaten lunch?”

You jump in your seat, trying to shuffle the offending papers away from Kaiyo’s scrutinising eye.

“Got a report due today, a call with some hotel chain that wants to buy over an Okinawa resort -”

She’s too quick for you - must be the side effect of being the wife of a professional athlete and mother to a half feral child, snatching the papers you’ve tried to hide away from you.

“Loan rates? Don’t you usually get your interns or juniors to churn this kind of information out for you?”

“It’s a personal matter”, you admit, unwilling to tell her more.

She actually rounds your cubicle wall, takes a seat on your desk. “You don’t have to take a loan - you know I’m more than willing to help you out - “

“No no no - “ you interrupt, waving your hand wildly, gesturing for her to lower her voice. “It’s not for me - I’m just helping a friend out with a project of his.”

“Ah.” She’s giving you that smile again. “Kita and his guesthouse?”

You just look at the ceiling, count the number of lights flickering at you overhead. Maybe if you just don’t give her what she wants she’ll go away.

No such luck.

“You’re really into him, huh.”

“It’s not like that!” you hiss. “He just needs help and it’s something I’m familiar with so of course I’m going to try my best to help him out.”

She just continues grinning at you.

“What!”

“I claim dibs on being your maid of honour when y’all get married, okay? Or matron of honour - even though gods, that makes me sound so old.”

“Go away!”

“I’m going, I’m going”, she says, backing away with her hands raised though not before she dumps an onigiri on your desk. You chew on it grumpily, thoughts of your interfering best friend falling to the wayside as you spend the rest of your lunch hour churning out the information Kita needs into an email he can easily refer to and use.

“Why’re you texting so late?”

A simple question, one riddled with far too many pitfalls. You have to carefully answer.

“My boss kept me up. Did you see the numbers I sent you last night?”

He takes his time to reply. “Yes. Made my decision. Coming to the city to sign with the bank soon. Would ya like to have dinner with me?”

“Of course”, you reply immediately, making a mental note to clear your schedule with your secretary. “Just name the time and place.”

He meets you again at the noisy little izakaya you’ve grown far too fond of, despite making enough money to frequent finer places because you cling on to the familiar, it makes you feel a little less alone in this city of too wide streets and too few smiles. He looks as if he belongs in your usual booth, a city boy instead of a farmer with his pressed shirt, glasses perched on the arch of his nose.

“Ya look tired”, he says as his greeting to you. “Have you been resting enough?”

You wonder if you should take it as an insult and realise you shouldn’t, because there’s a warmth in his eyes that seems more like concern than judgment, adding further fuel for the bonfire aflame in your heart.

“I’m used to it”, you reply.

Work is shit, your hours are long, but he doesn’t need to know that you’re spending even more time at your cramped desk because you’re running numbers and pulling favours for him. Your lunch hour, even your usual dinner hour has been burnt with endless calls to business contacts of yours, governmental officials, all to smooth over any bumps in the road that he might face.

“You should take care of yourself”, he tells you before beckoning the waitress over to take your order.

“I am”, you huff, even though that’s a lie.

It’s worth it though when he actually smiles at you, a full curve of his lips, eyes crinkling in the corners, when you lay out all the discounts, the shortcuts, the information wrangled from stubborn government officials, all neatly typed out and filed for him. It’s worth it when he reaches over the table to take your hand, express his gratitude and thank you for being a good friend.

That word stings just a little, even though you know you don’t have the right to demand anything more. “Of course”, you say, heart beating against your ribcage far too violently for you to mistake your feelings for him as being anything platonic. “You don’t have to thank me at all.”

“When the guest house is built”, he says. “Ya should’ve the honour of being the first guest.”

“Make sure there are clean sheets and I’ll be there”, you tease, laughing when his brows furrow in confusion at the thought of there being anything but pristine sheets in an establishment run by him.

His presence in your life blooms.

The little izakaya becomes your place to meet him once a fortnight.

He’s old fashioned, giving you a pained look every time you manage to snatch the bill from him, insisting he should buy you dinner especially since you’re burning so much of your spare time to help him. That’s not untrue but you do it freely though not without an ulterior motive, you want the excuse to talk to him as much as you can.

You smile every time you walk past it nowadays, and the lady boss even greets you as you pass, cheekily asking after your handsome boyfriend, even though you giggle demurely and tell her it’s not like that. You wish it were true though - and it’s easy to pretend your wish comes true when he knows your exact order, your preferred drink, and walks you outside with a warm hand on your lower back, bidding you goodnight in his calm voice with a hint of a smile in his eyes.

“You seem happier”, Kaiyo notes over lunch at work one day.

You scarf down your bento, mentally counting down the minutes until your next client call. “I guess I am”, you answer distractedly.

Slowly, surely, you stop viewing him as an unattainable god, see him for who he truly is - a good man with a kind heart. He sends you pictures of his ducklings, or more accurately, the young ducks that refuse to leave the confines of the water-nursery he’s constructed for them, the cold dew that covers his bare fields at dawn, the flowers he’s been trying to grow, hues of red and pink and gold burning across the skies like quickfire that remind you of sunsets spent by his side. Each picture is accompanied by a story about its subject, each text from him contains a message - affection from Grandma Yunie, concern from him about your long working hours, hope, pride even - about the progress of the guesthouse.

In turn you text him back about the tasks your boss drops on your head, the mistakes your juniors make that you need to spend hours fixing, the clients that expect you to work miracles overnight.

“It can’t be all that bad”, he says as an aside once, which made your belly pool with unbidden guilt.

You’re not being fair to him when he brings colour to your dull life with shades of his.

So you try your best to send him brief moments of beauty you find of life in the city that sometimes feels all grey - the sparrows you meet in the park on the way to work, the little extra oden that the combini staff slips into your breakfast bowl, the jokes you and Kaiyo share.

"Aren't these the moments that make you feel alive?" he texts you when he’s feeling particularly philosophical.

“Moments of brief human interaction?”

“You sound so cynical.”

You want to tell him that’s what living in a city does to you - an unnatural way to live, removed from your tribe, not belonging anywhere, you’re just a permanent tenant, drifting amidst millions of other lost souls.

But you don’t.

He doesn’t need to know the struggles you face. He doesn’t need to know you’ve missed the scheduled date for garbage disposal at least twice a month without fail. No one needs to know that you’ve actually had to buy disposable underwear (the horrors) once or twice when you come home late at night and realise you’ve been too busy to clear your laundry for the past week or so. You’re pathetic, floundering on a life raft trying to stay afloat, he - the lifeline you clint to in an attempt to alleviate your loneliness. You can’t afford to drive him away.

It’s easy when he’s so encouraging whenever you gush about how a client complimented your work, even if it’s followed up by a pile of even more work - the eternal contradiction of a worker bee, good work being rewarded with more work, when he actually sounds proud of you when you text him about how you’re being trusted with a big file to yourself.

“congrats”, he texts, and it feels inadequate to respond with a simple “thanks” when the warmth you imagine in that message keeps you sane in the face of the sting of your boss muttering that you might as well take the responsibility since you don’t have children or a husband to rush home to every night. As if you don’t have the right to personal time as a relatively young, unmarried woman, the right to rest, the right to just let your brain shut off for just one second - but you bite your tongue and try to smile.

Even during Hatsumode, you hide the fact that you’re adrift in the city with too many other lost, lonely souls like you. It should be a time for family, for reunions and celebrations to usher in the new year but you don’t want to head back to Tokyo to face your mother, not when she’s a-flutter about your younger sister getting engaged before you, so you chose to stay in Osaka on the pretense you have work to clear anyway.

“at least you can spend time with your friends” he texts, sounding a little judgemental.

“yeah - new year parties are always fun” you respond breezily, omitting the fact that one - you haven’t been for parties since your university years and two - your friends, like Kaiyo are spending time with their families, and you’ll be damned if you take any of her precious time away from Atsumu, who always seems to be travelling.

Kita’s family joins him on the farm for the holidays, but still he texts you at least once a day. “don’t forget to take breaks”, he might say every once in a while, or “make sure you eat - you know you tend to get gastric when you skip meals” around dinner or lunch. His texts chip away at the insurmountable ice wall of loneliness that’s crept up on you but you also see the irony in finding comfort in someone who’s miles and miles away most of the time.

m.list.~ taglist.~

a/n: a quieter chapter with a chockful of pining, but a lot more development in the chapters to come :)

#haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu angst #haikyuu fluff #kita shinsuke #kita x reader #kita x you #kita x y/n #kita shinsuke x reader #kita shinsuke x you #kita shinsuke x y/n #inarizaki #a sea of flowers in bloom

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silvanoir · 2 years ago

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it’s too damn hot

Been sick from the heat. I’m one of those people with wonky immune systems that can’t stand it when it gets over 85. It it has been.

Recent study showed that all the air pollution from NYC blows right towards where I live. Now MA has more reasons to hate NY than Redsox versus Yankees. I see it, feel it, smell it, the grit on my car windows, yellow and grey powder long after pollen season has ended. I sneeze it out.

I’m also constantly nauseous and my head feels like it’s full of hot silly putty rather than a brain. And global warming is only going to get worse and worse every year for the rest of my life.

I’ve been missing a lot of work because there’s no AC in our warehouse, only fans. And the fans are in the center of the building. I work in the front. I bring a small rechargeable fan and an icepack but its not enough.

The grass died and turned to dirt. The garden withers despite watering it in the mornings, just a little, briefly. The town reservoir is drying up. Egrets and herons and seagulls take advantage of the flopping fish. Animals have eaten all my vegetables and fruits (damn deer, damn chipmunks).

My dad is still living me (I wish he was not, but... eh) and he’s an old man with no circulation and keeps turning up the thermostat and I keep turning it down. He likes it at 80. I like it at 70.

I’ve been spending a lot of time in my basement (at least it’s cold down here) remodeling it, painting the dark paneling white and the trim gold, clearing out all the junk my mother asked to “store” over the years. She had more shoes, more coats, more EVERYTHING than one human can use in a lifetime. Indeed, she died before using most of it. I have re-occuring nightmares about her, that there was a mistake, she’s not really dead, and they return her to me not as the mother I miss from 2015 and before-- the one I took shopping trips with and went to lunch with and got along with (and lived her her own place), but the one she was in her last year of life, sick and angry and crazy who’d scream at all hours and tried to stab me to death with a pair of scissors but was too weak at that point to succeed.

Been watching DVDs while I paint and clean. Right now its a rewatch of ANGEL, I’m more than halfway through season 3. I think this is the last time I’ll rewatch this show and give the DVDs away when I’m done (It’s the only box set I’ve ever had that’s in a literal square box, I don’t know why all DVD cases weren’t this way, lots of wasted space in a standard DVD case)

Should’ve taken before and after photos of the basement remodel, to show how much work I’ve been doing. Its taking up my free time rather than the internet and working on my own art.

#real life

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birdsandwords-13856149 · 4 years ago

Photo

In-Depth Research+ Drawing Through Research

Shoebill

Commonly referred to as “prehistoric” -> emphasise the dinosaur likeness??

Found in Uganda

They can stand totally still for hours on end

Ruffled feathers from the front -> scarf? Clothing opportunity

They have the slowest flap rate of every bird -> characterised as lazy, thoughtful, heavy, ability to fly easily taken away?

Lives in swampy, boggy areas-> incorporate that into clothing?

Less than 10,000 left in the wild -> but they only support their strongest chick, which isn’t helping their population, therefore, turkeys voting for Christmas?

Build their nests on floating patches of vegetation because they’re so light

“Cultures believe the bird is taboo and bad luck”

Lungfish is their staple diet

It’s beak is razor sharp at the edges, which they use to decapitate their prey

They defecate on their own legs to keep cool, which at first glance looks like turkeys voting for Christmas but is actually beneficial to them

Live around still water which has lots of diseases

Translucent eyelids that covers their eyes when hunting and preening

SEYMORE THE SHOEBILL

A local took him in after fearing he would be killed by other locals. Keepers at the zoo used a life sized wooden shoebill to comfort the chick. Parents usually dribble water down their beaks into the chicks mouth, so keepers draped themselves in a grey sheet and poured water into the chicks mouth.

Found in the Bengweulu wetlands

THE STORY OF THE GREY HERON

From “The King of The Snakes” but Rosetta Bakersville, a collection of African short stories and folklore.

The stork saves a frog from being eaten by a snake, and the frog thanks him, but doesn’t warn him when an eagle flying above drops a branch on his head, and the stork dies. His family is upset and tell the frog never to come back otherwise they’ll eat him and his children.

This was how the storks, which I’m assuming are shoebills because they’re never called that, are described. “Each one was tall and thin, with a long graceful neck and a think pointed beak, they were a very grave family.” My only doubt is the description “long, pointed beak” because the shoebill has a large, thick beak in comparison to other wetland birds in the area. But tall and thin?

GENERAL RESEARCH

It’s eyes and face are what usually stick out to people who meet it face to face. “More African mask than bird” -> do NOT stick an African mask on it.

“According to legend, if a man goes missing in the swamp, a shoebill is to blame.”

Roughly 60% of their attacks are successful.

People steal their eggs and burn the wetlands to make space for farmland, which kills the chicks.

Fisherman inadvertadly compete with shoebills.

Shoebills are docile around humans,but will act aggressively to defend itself.

Shoebill protection plan

LOOK UP THE PLACE

Local fisherman are hired to guard shoebill nests from poachers.

“King of the marshes”

Communities in Uganda differ on lungfish, some think it’s fine to eat while others think it’s taboo.

IDIOM

Doing something that is obviously bad for you, most used in British politics, started in the 1970s but is being used more recently due to brexit.

Similar phrases

Shooting yourself in the foot, Doing something without intending to which spoils a situation for yourself

To be your own worst enemy

Asking for trouble

Digging your own grave, a warning when someone is doing something that will cause their own failure.

EXAMPLES OF DIGGING YOUR OWN GRAVE

Cheating on exams

Reckless credit card usage

Investing in a failing business

Not studying

Burning yourself out

Eating junk food and not excercising

Leaving work early

Doing hard drugs

Skipping class

SYNONYMS

asking for trouble

Looking for trouble

Being your own worst enemy

QUINTESSENCE

The fifth element, also known as Eeather in medieval philosophy, was also the medieval equivalent of modern dark matter.

The fifth element out of earth, water, fire and air, and seen as the pure element, as it was what planets and stars and gods were made out of. Where the word quintessential comes from, the purest form of something.

Quintessence was believed to move in circular patterns, and helped lead Aristotle’s explanation of observed orbits of stars and planets.

The use of “quintessence” was popular in medieval alchemy, it was believed that consuming it would cure any illnesses or ailments and it was the “pure element”.

“Quintessence” could be made by distilling alcohol 7 times. (Amazing)

Synonymous with elixirs, alchemy and the philosophers stone.

“The empty space between objects”

All space is permeated by “excessively small whirlpools” which would allow light to travel through them.

Before gravity was understood, Jakob Bernoulli theorised that the hardness of Aether is what gave objects a solid heaviness.

MODERN QUINTESSENCE

Theoretically, the substance that causes the universe to accelerate.

Most forms of energy (matter, radiation) cause the universe to slow down with their gravity. But quintessence could be the substance that is causing the universe to accelerate anyway.

More on Bangweulu Wetlands

Adjacent to Bangweulu in north western Zambia

Looking up if any plants and animals have any cultural meanings

Cyperus Papyrus, people in ancient Egypt would present these flowers as thanks to gods.

Miombo Woodland, nothing.

Crocodiles, can be very close with communities of people, can be vengeful on behalf of their friends and family.

Burchells Zebra, nothing.

Bushbuck, nothing.

Common Tsessebe, nothing.

Elephants, represent strength, power, wisdom.

Hippos, according to folklore, used to have hair but it was set on fire by a jealous hare.

Hyenas, in west Africa, symbolises immortality, dirty habits, and reversal of normal activities, clever sorcerers. Also in middle eastern folklore, representing treachery.

Jackals, clever sorcerers.

Migratory lechwe, nothing.

Oribi, nothing

Reedbuck, nothing

Roan, nothing

Sable antelope, no folklore specific to them either, but I think their horns are an awesome shape.

Sitatunga, nothing.

Straw coloured fruit bats, nothing.

Hamerkops, some legends say other birds help build its nests. When one flies by it means someone has died. Also, people who steal from / destroy their nests can get leprosy or struck by lightning. In Kenya, they’re linked to witchcraft,, alchemy? Potential link to quintessence.

Cormorants, used by humans as tools to fish by tying strings around their throats.

Ducks, nothing.

Egrets, nothing.

Geese, nothing.

Herons, nothing.

Ibis’, important in Egyptian mythos, toth, god of maths, literature, measurement and time.

Pygmy goose, nothing.

Waders, nothing.

Lungfish.

Has several villages living on the wetlands with an overall population of 50,000 to 90,000 people.

The habitat is threatened by burning for farming, overfishing and poaching.

Mosquito nets used for fishing.

Due to efforts, fish stocks have managed to recover.

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poem-today · 5 years ago

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A poem by Minnie Bruce Pratt

The Sound of One Fork

Through the window screen I can see an angle of grey roof and the silence that spreads in the branches of the pecan tree as the sun goes down. I am waiting for a lover. I am alone in a solitude that vibrates like the cicada in hot midmorning, that waits like the lobed sassafras leaf just before its dark green turns into red, that waits like the honeybee in the mouth of the purple lobelia. While I wait, I can hear the random clink of one fork against a plate. The woman next door is eating supper alone. She is sixty, perhaps, and for many years has eaten by herself the tomatoes, the corn and okra that she grows in her backyard garden. Her small metallic sound persists, as quiet almost as the windless silence, persists like the steady random click of a redbird cracking a few more seeds before the sun gets too low. She does not hurry, she does not linger. Her younger neighbors think that she is lonely. But I know what sufficiency she may possess. I know what can be gathered from year to year, gathered from what is near to hand, as I do elderberries that bend in damp thickets by the road, gathered and preserved, jars and jars shining in rows of claret red, made at times with help, a friend or a lover, but consumed long after, long after they are gone and I sit alone at the kitchen table. And when I sit in the last heat of Sunday, afternoons on the porch steps in the acid breath of the boxwoods, I also know desolation. The week is over, the coming night will not lift. I am exhausted from making each day. My family, my children live in other states, the women I love in other towns. I would rather be here than with them in the old ways, but when all that’s left of the sunset is the red reflection underneath the clouds, when I get up and come in to fix supper, in the darkened kitchen I am often lonely for them. In the morning and the evening we are by ourselves, the woman next door and I. Still, we persist. I open the drawer to get out the silverware. She goes to her garden to pull weeds and pick the crookneck squash that turn yellow with late summer. I walk down to the pond in the morning to watch and wait for the blue heron who comes at first light to feed on minnows that swim through her shadow in the water. She stays until the day grows so bright that she cannot endure it and leaves with her hunger unsatisfied. She bows her wings and slowly lifts into flight, grey and slate blue against a paler sky. I know she will come back. I see the light create a russet curve of land on the farther bank, where the wild rice bends heavy and ripe under the first blackbirds. I know she will come back. I see the light curve in the fall and rise of her wing.

Minnie Bruce Pratt

#minnie bruce pratt #american poetry #desolation #blue heron #solitude

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en--dear · 5 years ago

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“The Sound of One Fork”

BY MINNIE BRUCE PRATT

#words words words #poem #poetry #minnie bruce pratt

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ladyiceflame-blog · 7 years ago

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An Inconvenient Wedding:

Chapter Ten: Recon and Revelation

“So,” the sober little pug began, as he took a moment to scratch behind an ear, “Who is this ‘Asaito,’ exactly, and why are we spying on him?” “You...you can....talk?!” Naruto acknowledged immediately. For once, speaking on account of the others who seemed equally surprised. “Of course I can talk!” Pakkun huffed in annoyance. “I am a master-level ninken, aren’t I?” “But....Kiba’s Akamaru doesn’t speak....does he?” Sakura pressed. “Not that I’ve noticed,” Sasuke admitted. “But Kiba seems to understand him.” “The Inuzuka all have this ability to communicate with dogs. But summoned ninken can speak the human tongue,” Pakkun regaled. “Now, who is Asaito?” “He’s a jonin from the Land of Water, who is going to marry the Lady Ice Flame tomorrow,” Sakura provided. “I think I may have heard of this woman before...” the pug mused aloud. “Isn’t she some kind of wandering shinobi...?” “She is,” Naruto returned. “Although, most call her Miriyume.” “Miriyume?!?” the pug gasped, his half-lidded eyes going suddenly wide. “...from Shimogakure?” “Um-hmm,” Sasuke answered, wearing a smug smile. “You know of her, then. Have you met her?” “Unfortunately, I have not. But my master mourned that name, long ago. I was just a puppy. He was very sad.” There was a tinge of whimper in his voice. “Well, Kaka-sensei’s still sad, because she’s about to get hitched to a total dirt-bag!” Naruto reported, “and we’ve got one night left to convince her of it!” “Asaito is very reclusive and paranoid,” Sakura chimed in. “No one has really seen him in person, despite being camped here for the last couple of days.” “And he has a creepy old monk working for him, too,” Naruto added. “Miriyume’s team mates don’t even seem to like this guy,’ Sasuke continued. “Despite this being some ‘mutual arrangement’. They say it’s a marriage of politics, but she doesn’t seem to know much about his causes, or beliefs...” “Or his face!” Naruto scoffed. “And tonight will be the first night that they meet each other,” Sakura picked up again. “How can a marriage be so...cold? They’re basically strangers! It doesn’t make sense...” “Matters concerning the Mist...and love in general, seldom do,” Pakkun quipped. “But let’s attempt to find some answers.” As the three genin led Pakkun stealthily toward their target campsite, another keen nose caught whiff of their passage. “And just where are you guys sneaking off to...?” Kiba called out, before stepping out of the shadows of some trees ahead of them. “We’re on a mission, Kiba!” Naruto snapped back. “...On our sensei’s orders,” Sasuke added. “And stealth is key, so don’t cause a scene.” His eyes flashed briefly with a menacing red hue. “‘Stealth,’ You say...?” Kiba chuckled back, as Akamaru and Pakkun exchanged canine pleasantries, “Then why is Naruto involved?” “Because he’s part of out team, you flea-farm!” Sakura riposted. “Kiba takes great pride in his grooming,” a deep, flat voice lectured from above, before dropping down beside the pink-haired genin. “There are no fleas on his or Akamaru’s person, ever.” “Shino!” Sakura jumped back, bumping up against a mildly irritated Sasuke. “You nearly gave me a heart-attack!” “Then Hinata-sama had better come out from behind that camphor tree before anyone else gets scared....” Pakkun suggested. Meekly, Hinata crept from the cover of the wide bole, and stood beside Kiba, her pale cheeks flushed as pink as Sakura’s hair. “Can we trust you to cover our absence in camp?” Sasuke asked. Kiba snorted back in derision. “With the Hokage and our sensei gone, no one is going to miss us. So why don’t you tell us more about this ‘mission’?” He bent down to pick up Akamaru, and let him climb onto the top of his hooded head. “We’re bored.” “How about we don’t!” Naruto countered. “How about we just follow you, and figure it out for ourselves?” Kiba returned. “Tracking and spying is our speciality, after all. Not that you three are posing much of a challenge....” “Take that puppy off of your head, and I’ll give you a challenge!” Naruto fumed. “No, wait, Kiba’s right,” Sasuke decided suddenly, putting a hand on Naruto’s shoulder. “They are better at spying. They can help us.” “They can be our perimeter watch,” Sakura agreed, “...and our early warning system, for when Asaito’s party returns.” “So you mean to spy on the Land of Water compound,” Shino sussed aloud. “We do,” Sasuke admitted. “On....on....Tsuroyuni-sama.....Asaito?” Hinata asked nervously. “Uh-huh,” Naruto answered. “Rumor has it that he’s a scum-bag.” “He. He....is,” Hinata returned, shocking everyone. The formal feast hall was a summoned structure of crimson silk walls and curtained doors. It seemed a little out of place amongst the yurts and tents surrounding it. Warm lights from within had turned the long, rectangular space into a massive lamp against the fast-encroaching twilight. Wakame was at a door positioned in the middle of the silken tent, standing with a pair of Shimogakuran shinobi. She immediately beckoned them. “Ah, Hiruzen-sama!” she greeted warmly. “We get to sit together, because I made the seating arrangements! Although, I seem to have neglected to find an honor guard for myself.” “Kurenai-san and Kakashi-san will come to your aid if needed, have no doubts,” Hiruzen assured. “You don’t foresee any trouble, do you, Wakame-san?” “Only if the dessert chef has been over indulging himself in the brandy again....” Wakame laughed. “Please, come in...” As they stepped past the scarlet curtains, Kurenai gasped softly in wonder at the interior. Dozens of golden lanterns suffused the space with a welcoming, radiant light. A long, ebony table, laid with elegant ceramic, crystal, lacquered chopsticks, and embroidered linen sat at knee-height, surrounded by decadent-looking velvet cushions. Directly opposite them, already seated on two of the cushions, was the Shimokhan and his wife, the Heron Sage-Priestess. Another pair of Shimogakuran nin stood behind them. “Ah! Hiruzen-sama!” Ryuumaru greeted heartily, raising his sake cup in salute, as Wakame prompted him to sit down beside her. “You’ve always been a punctual kind of fellow. I wish I could say the same of my daughter....or my soon-to-be son-in-law...” he grumbled. “Settle down, beloved, or your sake drinking privileges shall be revoked for the evening,” the almost otherworldly beautiful woman beside him chided softly. Her skin was as pale as moonlight. Her hair was a long cascade of lavender that had been plaited into a thick braid, ending in a silver heron ornament. She was wearing a high-collared hime kimono, in the Yaseiarashi colors of indigo and silver, printed with the three pronged clan seal. A large banner behind the couple echoed these motifs. And for the first time, Kakashi was able to see the color of her eyes: a solid, arresting shade of golden green that called to mind images of morning sunlight, filtering through summer oak leaves. And there was a definite power in those eyes... “Renara-sama...” Hiruzen began with a soft sigh, “The rumors are true. Your beauty is ageless.” The Heron Sage Priestess smiled demurely at the compliment. “Hiruzen-sama remains ever the flatterer....” “Alright, now, stop flirting with my wife,” the Shimokhan demanded with a playful gruffness. “Would your shinobi care for some sake before dinner begins? It will be their last chance to partake of anything until after we’ve eaten...due to some byzantine custom of established marriage etiquette, I’m afraid.” A gentle nudge from Renara prompted him to add, “...or tea, perhaps? Renara-chan has brought one of her custom blends....” “Some tea would be lovely,” Kurenai answered. “And you....?” Ryuumaru turned his hawk-like eyes on Kakashi. “Out of respect for both my hosts, I will have some of both,” he replied. “Excellent answer!” the Head Ninja of Shimogakure cheered, as a young chamberlain went off to get the drinks. “Now, permit me to make some quick introductions. First of all, my beautiful wife, the Heron Sage-Priestess, the resplendent Lady Renara,” taking her pale hand and kissing it. “Mother of the Bride, spouse of a salt-crusted old fool.” “I relish salt,” Renara returned sweetly. “Behind us are Nobu Madarame and Hyozan Shirogane. Nobu-san was the same year as Miri-chan. Hyozan-san was a few years behind.” “Was she a close friend of yours?” Kurenai asked, regarding Nobu, and accepting her tea. “We all were close friends,” Hyozan answered for him. “....Mat-kun, Gek-kun, all of us. Shimogakure is a small village...” “When Shimokhan-sama said that Miri-sama and I were in the same year, he was speaking definitively,” Nobu added. “Her and I were the only new genin that year.” “Only two genin in a class?!” Hiruzen gasped. “I believe this last year, we had nine!” “We often must wait years before assembling a genin team, due to our low population,” Wakame added. “Some never get the chance, like me.” “Well, I, for one, envy your academy’s ability to devote so much more time to their students,” Hiruzen returned. “Miri-sama sure didn’t...” Nobu chuckled, before receiving a sharp look from his Head Ninja. “Sorry, Khan.” The Hokage cleared his throat: “Allow me to introduce the shinobi accompanying me tonight, Kurenai Yuhi, and Kakashi Hatake. Both, I believe, are about the same year as your daughter and Nobu-san.” “Kakashi.....” Renara began, as if recalling some distant memory, “....of the Copy-Wheel Eye?” “I am called that, yes,” Kakashi returned, as he turned back around from his guarded sip of the proffered sake. He raised his headband a touch to allow her a glimpse of the eye that gave him that moniker. Renara nodded in gratitude, and continued as he replaced his headband. A servant exchanged his sake cup for a tea cup. “...also, Hero of the Sharingan....and White Fang’s Cub...” she elaborated, giving her husband a pointed look. Ryuumaru drew a sharp breath, and locked his gaze on the grey-haired jonin. “That’s why he’s so damn familiar! He looks just like him! You’re Sakumo’s boy!” Kakashi’s exposed eye betrayed his surprise. “You....knew of my father?” “Knew him?! I owed the man my life! It was his talent with a sword that prevented Renara-sama from becoming a widow!” Ryuumaru’s face fell slightly, as he remembered the nature of his friend’s departure from this world. “My grief prevented me from uttering his name for nearly three years...after I’d gotten word of his passing.” “Such an incongruent custom, for such an eminently gregarious country,” observed an oily new voice in the tent. The messenger monk of the Tsuroyuni household had arrived, creeping out of the shadows of the curtained doors on the far left. “The incongruence directly reflects our somber attitude toward death, Oda-sama,” Renara returned. “But let us not speak of such things before a wedding. It is bad luck.” “I am in agreement, my lady,” Oda took a moment to regard the furnishings, eyeing the empty cushion under the banner bearing the emblem of Water. “We seem to be missing a couple of key guests here tonight,” the unsavory monk observed, “For instance, a bride?” “Shimogakuran brides always enter last, Oda-sama!” came a familiar, strident male voice from the curtained area on the far right. “Its another of our ‘incongruent customs’....” “Gekido-san!” Wakame censured sharply, as she stood and moved to stand beside a braided cord on the right side of the room, under the Frost banner. Oda had positioned himself beside a matching one on the left. Ryuumaru chuckled to himself, muttering, “I love that boy,” before being nudged to respectful silence by his wife. Miriyume had been watching from the shadows, Kakashi suddenly realized, straightening his stance. “Then out of the deepest respect for the bride, let me proudly present the groom, the Lord Asaito Tsuroyuni! Governor of the Koryomizu Prefecture, in the Land of Water!” Oda announced, and pulled the cord. The silken curtains parted, from which first stepped a quartet of guards, dressed entirely in black, surmounted by light shinobi plate armor. The katana that they carried didn’t soften their look any. Then the groom stepped forward. Tall, slender, and the very essence of every woman’s darkest desire. The half-smile on his clean-shaven, alabaster face spoke of a supreme self-confidence. His straight carriage and unconscious grace attested to a noble lineage. And his eyes: an odd shade of burgundy that made both Wakame and Kurenai gasp at the appealing promises that they hid in their depths, as they swallowed the golden light of the lanterns. His black yukata, embellished with silver symbols of longevity, was worn daringly open, revealing perfectly sculpted pectorals. His raven, shoulder-length hair was best described as ‘stylishly tousled’. Kakashi thought he looked like every playboy tempter he’d ever seen splayed over his Icha-Icha reading.... It was all too easy to see the immediate impact his appearance had on women. Kurenai and Wakame were both agog. Even the girls on the wait staff were awkwardly gawking. The only woman who seemed immune to his ‘charms’ was Renara. The uncomfortable silence was broken by the man who had created it. “My heartfelt greetings, honored parents-to-be,” in an authoritative, yet genial tone that carried as easily as a temple bell. “Long have I desired to meet the people responsible for bringing the Lady Ice Flame into the world. You have my infinite gratitude,” ending the proclamation with a deeply respectful bow. Ryuumaru looked a little overwhelmed at the pronouncement. “Well, then....you are most...welcome...” looking desperately to his wife. “Please, sit, and make yourself comfortable,” Renara continued. “Meaning no offense,” Asaito pardoned, “I wish to be standing when I first lay eyes upon my betrothed, if it isn’t too much to ask...?” “His pious discretion over the past few days has surely earned him this right....?” Oda lobbied from his seat beside Hiruzen. “I see no problem with it,” Ryuumaru returned, and nodded to Wakame. “Then it is with equal pride, and pleasure, that I present the Lady Ice Flame, Miriyume Yaseiarashi, the Storm Sage Priestess of Shimogakure!” The cord was pulled, the curtains parted, and the Lady Ice Flame stepped forth. Only one word could form in Kakashi’s mind: sublime. She was wearing an indigo yukata that melted into the colors of her Land’s famed aurora borealis on the bottom hems of the long, bell sleeves and robe. An obi of twinkling stars was tied in a butterfly knot right above her shapely, round hips. Her top was also rather daringly open, permitting a delicious view of her overly generous bosom. Her long, fiery hair had been pinned up into an elegant coiffure, and was festooned with a variety of ornaments, allowing a rare glimpse of her graceful, slender neck. Kakashi’s idle lungs suddenly sucked in a desperately needed breath, as she stood at the end of the table closest to him. Her sapphire and emerald eyes were regarding the man that was to be her husband. They squinted in appraisal. “Here I am,” she announced with a mischievous looking smirk on her plum-lacquered lips. Her eyes then scanned over the others in the room, and brought a blush to Kakashi’s cheeks when they landed on him. “Your beauty from afar is undeniable, my Lady,” Asaito began, “But at this distance, you are utterly devastating,” placing a long fingered hand over his heart, and sunk to his knees, onto his cushion. “I very nearly tremble at your majesty.” “She does clean up rather nice, doesn’t she, Mat-kun?” Gekido asided, as he and his teammate, including Aoseishin, of course, flanked Miriyume as she took her seat. “You cut a rather dashing figure, yourself, my Lord,” Miriyume purred, as she toyed with a strand of icy colored jade beads that hung against her bountiful decolletage. “Very tall....very mysterious. I am a fan of both these traits.” Kakashi bit his lip, powerless to do much else. “I lament the mystery by which I have been forced to live,” Asaito returned, his wine-dark eyes riveted to her. “It has resulted in a lonely life.” “But there is word of great changes in the Land of Water,” Hiruzen began. “New attitudes of acceptance and tolerance?” “Such changes–welcome as they are–can not happen overnight,” Asaito returned. “There are still many who would thwart, and even harm, my Lord simply because of his kekkei genkai...minor that it is,” Oda added. “And yet, you would request that my daughter, who is possessed of two kekkei genkai, of significant merit, tie her fate to this risk?” Ryuumaru countered. “Miriyume-sama’s safety would be paramount to my own, I can assure you,” Asaito returned, looking his prospective father-in-law directly in the eye. “My island is a fortress that has never been breached. Kirigakure can’t even make such a boast.” “No, they certainly can’t,” the Hokage seconded softly, giving a sly, sidelong glance to the man who had broken that village’s defenses numerous times, who was standing behind Wakame. He noticed that Kakashi looked a little paler than normal... “And I am rather good at taking care of myself, Father,” Miriyume reminded playfully. “You most certainly can, my darling girl,” Ryuumaru agreed. “But let a father indulge some concern for your well-being every once in awhile.” “Let us get this dinner started already, shall we?” Renara suggested, nodding at Wakame who got up again to ring a ceremonial gong. As a flurry of serving staff entered the room, Kakashi focused on projecting a stoic front in the light of this grueling torment. He’d been hoping for some pudgy, over-privileged, noble prefect who had been awarded a jonin status simply because of caste, but this man looked like he could put up a good fight when motivated. He also seemed to be rather attractive... At least, Kurenai seemed to think so, what with her frequent glances in Asaito’s direction. Kakashi turned back toward Miriyume, desperate for some small clue to her inner thoughts. She was radiant, shining brighter than any of the golden lanterns above them. He watched as she gave Aoseishin a small scratch behind his thick, pointy ear, as he curled up at her side. Again, her casual attitude in the face of rampant formality made him smile. He began to feel the forbidding tendrils of his compounding misery loosen and fall away in the comforting light of her presence. Was this her chakra at work again? He pulled the headband off of his left eye, and saw the languid curtains of iridescent light that always seemed to accompany her, suffusing her with natural chi, and winding about her companions. Every once in awhile, a ribbon of her light would meander his direction, and grant him a light tingle of chakra, but her spiritual energy sharing seemed to concentrate mostly on the spaces beside her. A steady rivulet of light seemed to be flowing toward her parents, however. An alternating current effect from her father’s own abilities, perhaps? Ryuumaru’s chakra had an amber aura, and a more focused, tighter control. He grounded his superfluous energy, and kept the nimbus that surrounded him snug against himself. He seemed more of a furnace than a wellspring. The Heron Priestess received a small amount of his run-off energy, which transmuted to a pale jade glow. The contemplation of which produced a calming, focusing effect upon Kakashi’s heart, reminding him of his official purpose: assess the danger. He turned toward Asaito: There was a dull ember in his strange, chartreuse eyes that never seemed to stray beyond Miriyume for long. He was indeed ‘desirous’ of this union. The hunger behind them was too easily read. Every once in awhile, Kakashi could see a flare of some kind of energy, lurking behind them, in response to a wayward eddy of Miriyume’s chakra. Was this Asaito’s kekkei genkai? “This tea...” the Hokage began, savoring its scent as the others were being served. “Such a familiar aroma....what is it?” “Its northern ginseng,” Renara answered. “Renowned for its....stimulative properties.” “As if Miri-chan needs that...” Gekido quipped to Matsuko, who smacked the back of his head. On the other side of the table, one of Asaito’s personal guard stepped forward to take a sip from the tea cup offered to his employer. “We are not in the habit of poisoning our own food, Lord Asaito,” Ryuumaru announced gruffly, clearly insulted. “My deepest apologies, Yaseiarashi-sama,” Asaito begged, as he was handed the tea cup. “I have always had a food-taster, for as long as I can remember.” “It’s a commonly instituted custom in the Land of Water,” Oda defended. “One that I insist that my Lord practice at all times.” “It’s nothing personal, I assure you,” Asaito added. “They speak the truth, Father, Mother,” Miriyume vouched, as she sipped her tea. Kakashi watched as she closed her eyes as she drank and swallowed.... like she was kissing the teacup. He followed the exquisite contraction of her neck muscles....savored the gentle compression of her full, plum-hued lips to clear the moisture that had remained there. “Everyone is paranoid.” “A habit born of the days of the Bloody Mist Academy, no doubt...” Kakashi offered, forgetting his stoicism for a moment. Hiruzen shot him a concerned look. Honor guards were only supposed to speak when directly addressed. “No doubt,” Miriyume granted with a nod. Hiruzen looked to the Oda and Asaito, correctly intuiting the spirit of Kakashi’s observation. Oda was scowling. Asaito’s face still bore that neutral smile, but his eyes seemed to grow a few shades darker, as he turned his attention to Hatake. Gods. Of all the times for ‘Cold-Blooded Kakashi’ to warm up! He could at least have the sense to hide these feelings in the presence of this notoriously mistrusting, and ever calculating man! Time for a strategic conversation shift... “Has the Lord Tsuroyuni ever been to the Land of Fire, before now?” the Hokage asked, drawing Asaito’s predatory gaze away from his jonin. The wait staff began to serve the soup course. “No, I have not,” Asaito answered. “As a member of the First Caste, I am kept busy with administration duties. I rarely have the chance to travel.” “Is that to say that you will be denying my daughter a proper Honeymoon?” Ryuumaru asked sternly. “Shimogakuran’s take such decisions as an ill omen.” Oda lowered his head, and muttered softly in Hiruzen’s direction: “What don’t you take as an ill-omen...?” “Not at all,” Asaito smiled, after he flashed his monk a venomous glare. “It will just be within the confines of our large and varied landscape. There are several options that I’ve considered...” Miriyume gave a loud, exasperated sigh from across the table, and bit the inside of her lower lip, creating the most beautiful pout that Kakashi had ever seen. “And here I was hoping for the Thousand Tongues....” Her father choked on his tea. Wakame’s jaw dropped. Her mother blushed and censured her with her own name. Kakashi was struck numb, and nearly fell over. Gekido, of course, erupted into laughter. “Um....Miri-chan...?” Matsuko was very confused. “Did you just say...?” The Inuzuka won back the struggle to speak momentarily; “That’s probably....a discussion that you should have....at another time...!” He shrieked the last part, and lost himself to laughter all over again. Aoseishin whined in confusion. Asaito looked pleasantly amused, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow. “I’m talking about a resort in the Kingdom of the Moon, you perverts!” Miriyume snapped. “Oh, thank Naru-kami....” Ryuumaru sighed. “It’s a series of sacred pools, connected by waterfalls,” the storm sage continued, “...which are said to be so naturally aerated that soaking in them feels like a thousand little tongues, licking your entire body.” There, Ice Flame thought inwardly. That should cement his attention... “That’s still hardly a fitting subject for dinner, my dear,” Renara scolded gently. “Sounds like an experience I need,” Kurenai chuckled. “I may have to arrange a holiday for myself,” Hiruzen smiled up at the astute jonin, then regarded Kakashi, who still seemed to be reeling from Miriyume’s initial pronouncement. That was the Hatake clan for you: Excellent ninja, deplorable social skills. No mystery as to why the clan was so small in number... “Kakashi,” the Hokage whispered softly, attempting to pull his eyes away from the Lady Ice Flame. Perhaps he should have gone with a genin honor guard instead... “So....you’re Kakashi?” Asaito began, on hearing the Hokage’s attempt at discretion. “Oda-sama has told me that you have done the Land of Water a great service, by ridding us of a certain notorious swordsman....?” “It is true,” Kakashi answered, and turned his Sharingan on Asaito’s burgundy eyes. “Zabuza Momochi is no more.” “I am glad to hear of it,” Asaito returned flatly. “The Demon of the Mist was....troublesome.” The Sharingan told him that he wasn’t lying. It also told him that this man was far more dangerous than Zabuza ever had been. The brief glimpse into his eerie eyes had landed him on the edge of a yawing chasm of utter void. Bereft of love, hate, or emotion at all. It was a coldness that had no place in the human heart. Kakashi nearly shuddered in response. “Oda-sama also tells me that you have balked at the mention of a reward, but, I am a man of–“ he flicked his cold, cruel eyes at Miriyume briefly–“no ‘little’ means,” he announced playfully. “Name your prize, and it is yours.” Kakashi was scowling so hard beneath his mask that his mouth and cheeks ached with the unconscious exertion. The expression was fast creeping into his eyes. How dare he! Calling him out in front of his Hokage....in front of Miriyume, he seethed inwardly. It was a stinging insult to shinobi character to insist that one fought only for money or reward! This scum wasn’t worthy of the title of jonin, or even shinobi. And he certainly didn’t merit the Lady Ice Flame. “There is nothing I want that is in your power to give,” Kakashi carefully replied, and resumed his stoic posture. “Kakashi is a man of modest means, Lord Asaito,” Hiruzen placated, as he finished his bowl of miso and leek, “...and great integrity. His devotion to duty is unparalleled in Konohagakure....” “...and as I said before,” Kakashi commandeered, to Sarutobi’s chagrin, “The safe return of my students was all the reward that I required. So, please, stop offering.” “Very well, I tried,” Asaito sighed, and threw up his hands as the soup bowls were cleared. “Every man to his own peculiarities,” Ryuumaru observed aloud, and smiled warmly at Kakashi. “ So long as they don’t harm anyone. And I have the highest admiration for a shinobi who puts such importance on the welfare of their team, so I’ll be pouring you a cup of my private reserve whiskey later...and don’t you dare refuse me!” “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Kakashi returned, and reflexively looked to Miriyume–who was looking back, and with a rather wide-eyed expression. Her arrested attention sent a twinge of electricity through his nerves, making him stagger a little. “You...and your team killed Zabuza?” Miriyume asked gently. “We...ushered him, and Haku, to their graves, my lady,” Kakashi replied even softer. She looked up to Matsuko and Gekido in turn, as if sharing a poignant collective memory. “We tangled with them...a couple of times. Only narrowly avoiding disaster. I believe I’ll be drinking a toast to you as well...” Kakashi felt the tingling touch of her ambient chakra as she willed a luminescent ribbon his way. His left eye permitted him to see it as it wound about his chest, emulating a hug. He sighed in its embrace, at it infused him with renewed energy and hope. Had the ‘kraken incident’ been forgiven? He’d send the remaining Seven Swordsmen single-handedly to their graves if it would win him more of her approval. The moment of private ecstasy was thwarted by Asaito: “Which reminds me....” commanding the room’s attention, as the main course was brought out. “I have very special gift for us alone to share, my darling.” He then gestured to one of his guards. The man produced a blue glass wine bottle, painted with water lilies, and held it cradled in his hands as if it were a sacred object. “This,” Asaito continued, “...is a very rare, and very good bottle of Kirian sparkling wine, crafted by the famed winery of the Rolling Fog islands, set down in the time of the Nidame Mizukage. Only a handful remain, and I’d like to share this one with you, my sparkling diamond of the Frost.” All eyes watched as the bottle was reverently opened, and poured into first Asaito’s crystal glass, and then Miriyume’s. Both raised their goblets in salute to one another. “Kanpai!” Asaito began, and drank deeply while keeping his eyes on Miriyume, savoring the taste of the liquid, and the image of the woman equally. “Kanpai!” she echoed, clearly intrigued by the fizzy drink. She brought the glass to her lips, but a swift hand snatched it away before it made contact. She turned to confront the thief, but Gekido had already finished half of it. “You know,” handing the remainder of the wine back to an irate Miriyume, “...that is really good!” He then turned a fierce glare upon Asaito, and added: “Nothing personal!”

#kakashi

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rudimentaryrecollections · 7 years ago

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Newcastle upon Tyne 23-24 June 2017

Newy upon Tyne. I kill time upon the Tyne. I wait for my Couchsurfer host to finish work. I go to an art gallery in an old grain silo. The art doesn’t do much for me, but the view of the city from top does.

I read a book on the history of the first bridge here. Much quarrelling between the Newcastle governance who owned the south bank, and a bishop who owned the north bank. The government paid for the building of the bridge, but the bishop owned the land on the north side. So they had to share the tolls.

I meet my host Shane. He’s Irish, studying a PHD in mathematics. We go for a pint, and bump into one of his mates, who is drinking with his friends. We join them, and have a few with the boys.

I first talk to a man who I think of as the Geordie George Costanza, in personality and appearance. Red haired Joe takes a liking to me. Like me when I lived in Newy, he finds travellers immediately fascinating. Mario arrives. Don’t let the name fool you, he’s Spanish.

Shane’s mate has the air of a genius. PHD smart with the social skills to match. We leave and walk past a statue of Earl Grey. Joe tells me that Earl Grey tea was originally flavoured with bergamot because the tea leaves used were the scraps from the factory floor and tasted awful. Not sure what it has to do with Earl Grey still.

Shane and I, having looked at maps of Newy, NSW and Newy upon Tyne remark on how many places in the areas have been named the same. Sandgate, Jesmond, Wallsend, Hexham, Morpeth – all townships in both countries. Yes, many English settlers and explorers named places after those they knew in Europe, I wonder if I would have been more creative if I were one of them.

We move to a dive bar. Underground. A heavy metal band starts thrashing on stage. The venue is packed. Not my scene but grateful for the new experience. I feel wobbly. The pints are catching up. Realise I haven’t eaten dinner. I scoff peanuts from my pocket, and hand some to Shane who is also famished.

He doesn’t want them all, so we put the rest in an empty Kinder Surprise canister sitting on the barrel table. Now that’s a kinder surprise for a curious drunkard than a toy. There is an announcement for the winners of a local band comp. The winner gets to perform at Bloodlust festival. The winning band is overjoyed. The MC says how much it means to him that everyone has come here with peace and respect for the love of heavy metal. It is very emotional and a stark contrast to the thrash mosh and bloodlust imagery.

We stumble back to Shane’s. En-route he shows me the casino which is full of nightclubs. It is very Geordie Shore, with hens parties littered around the entrance. Apparently Newcastle has a reputation of a party town. I sleep well on the couch.

Shane is a late riser. I wander outside in the windy sunshine. I eat sausage rolls for breakfast. They do not keep them in an oven or hot box here. They sit them in the shop window and are served at room temperature.

I make my way to Newy’s namesake - yes, the New Castle itself. In Roman times Newcastle was known as Pons Aelius - “The bridge of Hadrian”. It was a small fort built along Hadrian’s Wall to protect a bridge across the Tyne.

I sat on the castle but did not pay to enter. From outside I saw the Black Gate, which marked it’s entrance, and Heron’s Pit, a prison cell. The only entrance to it was a trapdoor which prisoners were thrown from the guardroom above. I did not go into the pit either.

I walked towards the Tyne, and marveled at the railway bridge. The stairs down to the Tyne were quiet, ancient pathways. I walked to the Millennium bridge. A pedestrian bridge built for the year 2000. At midday it tilts, and apparently uses no more power than a household kettle to do so. I sat and watched it tilt. It tilted up. Then it tilted back down. Now that’s entertainment.

A man busked obnoxiously beside it. He twanged the guitar aggressively and off tune and shouted rather than sang. He sang, “There were three in the bed...” but purposely got the words and tone wrong. I would have been amused if I were not hungover.

I jumped on the train to Wallsend, where the Hadrian Wall Path begins.

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ktkski2017-blog · 8 years ago

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Mount Kenya

February 21, 2017

On Saturday, after rounding in the morning on male medical ward with Janet while Clark battled the credit card/debit card/cash/bank/chip-card debacle, Luke and I prepared to leave Chogoria to hike Mount Kenya. If you read our safari adventure you might have heard of our hired guide, Dunsten. So long story short, we had already given him a downpayment to take us up Mount Kenya prior to going on safari – and this guy had been recommended by Sergei from a hike he went on the previous month – so we went with it. His company was called something like mountain trekkers so we figured it had to be better than the safari. And it was – I can glowingly recommend Dunsten and his crew for mountain trekking as we had a great weekend.

Day 1

We met Dunsten and his six porters/cooks/drivers/what have you in the grass in front of Clark’s house. They had a safari vehicle (go figure) that was a bit worse for wear, but ran. The whole group of them watched as Luke and I walked up (joined by Clark who came to see us off) and then I proceeded to talk business with Dunsten and debate costs (details not important). We eventually agreed (in front of everyone) and jumped in the vehicle, fitting all eight people and our gear inside - two in the boot with all of the backpacks. We picked up someone in town who wanted a ride to the National Park, so now there were nine of us. The road up the mountain was similar to the one we had taken with Leonard to find the waterfall a few days ago – at times narrow with potholes and obstacles. At another time, the road was newly made and completely smooth with water pipes running alongside it in the dirt as if the road was not yet finished. The car did not have power steering so the driver wrangled the steering wheel back and forth. The door that I was sitting against did not seem stable so I spent the ride gripping the seat in front of me as we also didn’t have seatbelts. All of the “the guys” debated loudly about various topics in Swahili so Luke and I just watched the sights go by. Once we reached the Mount Kenya National Forest (the electric fence wire strewn to the side allowing open driving to and from the forest), the road was graded and relatively well maintained but pretty steep. At one point Dunsten got out and did something with the engine before we went up a large slope. The forest on either side of the road had a lot of bamboo and we saw several small animals scamper to the sides, including monkeys. Dunsten said that the forest had water buffalo, hyena, some predators (but few and far between), birds, elephants, etc. At one incline the car stopped and Dunsten said that Luke and I were to get out to hike the last few kilometers for acclimation to the altitude. We hopped out and met Elijah – one of the crew that had been riding with us (turns out he is Dunsten’s brother-in-law) – and we hiked up the remainder of the distance to the cabin we were scheduled to stay at overnight at “the Bandas.” Luke and I had started taking dexamethasone the previous day – this is a generic steroid that people with lung diseases or inflammatory conditions take when they need a boost to their systems and can be used to combat altitude sickness. We did okay with the altitude – we were certainly huffing and puffing but as soon as the ground levelled out our breathing and heart rates slowed to normal (without the acclimation we would likely have higher resting heart and breathing rates to compensate for the decreased oxygen available at higher altitudes – this makes your body work harder just to maintain status-quo).

The cabin was simple wood with concrete footers and a concrete fireplace – we were given a bedroom with twin beds and a bathroom that was no frills. The shower leaked all day (which perhaps kept it from freezing in the cold temperatures on the mountain) and the toilet didn’t have a seat – which is common in public bathrooms in Kenya. The temperature was cool - maybe in the 60’s –but I was comfortable in a t-shirt with a thin long-sleeve over shirt and running pants. Luke was in shorts. The porters/cooks set up in the next room to cook dinner and brought us out some tea. Elijah gathered us to go for a walk around the Bandas to see some of the animals. He walked us up to a fish hatchery, however there was no one around to show us the place – so we wandered a bit around the large cement drums that supposedly held 1,000 fish each and I snapped some shots of a large grey heron that must find some way to get past the hodge-podge wire coverings. We went to a few overlooks and saw waterbuck. At another overlook we heard loud noises in the woods so we sat down to see if any large animals would emerge. Several water buffalo descended out of the forest but the noises continued and we highly suspected an elephant (known for chomping down trees for a snack). While sitting on tufts of dried grasses, the weather changed and a rain cloud appeared overhead. I remember saying “looks like a rain cloud” but we continued to wait for the suspected elephant. We felt a couple of drops and decided to start walking back. Shortly thereafter, the sky opened up and it began to downpour so we ran for cover under one of the other cabin porches. Eventually we figured we needed to run the rest of the way in the rain as it did not look like it was going to stop anytime soon. Soaked, we returned to the cabin to be chuckled at by the other porters. We changed our clothes and sat around in the small sitting room next to the kitchen as people came and went all speaking Swahili. The temperatures dropped with the sun and Elijah lit a fire in the fireplace. Dinner was soup for appetizer with mashed potatoes, a vegetable stew, and fresh fruit for dessert. Initially, we didn’t know that the soup was only an appetizer – so we were stuffed by the end of dinner as we had eaten dinner portions of soup. The evening was spent sitting around the fire – Elijah joined us for some of the time and Dunsten for another portion. They were taking turns between their own meals. In the kitchen next to us was a constant discussion and people kept coming and going – it was like a clown car once we realized how small the room actually (there was only 1 chair we realized the next day). Eventually the party left the kitchen and the cabin was left to Luke and I. We hung up our wet clothes to dry by the fire and eventually went to sleep as we hadn’t thought to bring any entertainment with us (to lighten the load of hiking). The night was cold and the rain kept coming and going – so loud on the tin roofed buildings.

Day 2

Morning came early and the cook came at 6am to start boiling water and making food. We got up, packed our hiking bags (to be carried by the porters) and sat down for breakfast, which included fried eggs, toast, and a kind of pancake vs thick crepe. And tea, of course. Once we were all packed and ready, Dunsten led Luke and I toward the next destination. The day was cloudy with patchy sun. I kept switching from being too hot to too cold depending on whether the sun was out or we were going uphill. We walked through some pretty varied landscape – from dried grasses to green forest with huge trees dangling what looked like Spanish moss. There were fragrant bushes lining many of the roads that smelled kind of like rosemary and spearmint. I tried to figure out what many of the plants were but they were all strange and Dunsten only knew the names of a few, which he would share when he knew them. The large trees were “argoria”? And looked like huge Cyprus trees with thick wide spanning branches. At one point we made a turn off to go view a scenic lake and headed uphill. The climb was steep and slow – at one particularly steep area we realized a SUV with a small fishing boat on top of it was coming up behind us. Several guys got out of the vehicle and walked up the hill as the driver of the vehicle somehow drove that SUV up some of the most rugged and steep road that I have ever seen. He even waved at us out the window as he passed and then quickly put two hands back on the wheel. We met the guys as they walked past us – some ex-pats from Scotland/New Zealand/Canada was the vague explanation that I got. They were adventuring this weekend. Sounded like they had previously summited the mountain and were here for what I would assume is ‘bro’ time. We continued the slow climb after they had re-entered the car once it had passed the worst of the bad road. The lake was very picturesque in the dried grassy fields. Luke and I ate a snack and tried to enjoy the nature (minus the car load of guys across the way setting up for fishing camp). Dunsten the led us onward instead of back towards the way we came, saying we were going to take “the scenic route” to the camp. We walked farther along the lake, past some designated camping sites, and up around the hill next to the lake. The path was at times easy to find and other times was non-existent and so we bushwhacked through some of the foliage. The dried grass tufts were tricky to walk through as the ground was obscured by the grass – you never knew what lay beneath. A hole? A rock? Sometimes you would trip yourself with the grass if you stood on the end of it and tried to pass your other foot, hooking your toe. If you stepped on the dried grass tuft your foot would fall off the edge of the very sturdy tuft. I got far behind Luke and Dunsten several times trying to maneuver my path. We bushwhacked down a slope and I almost fell several times, grabbing on to various bushes to stabilize myself. We walked along a river for a while and my arms got sore from brushing against the bushes that stood on either side of the animal trail path – I felt like I was training to be a linebacker by the end of the trip from the number of times I had to push past the branches. As my hangry level rose we continued to bushwhack toward lunch. At one point Dunsten had us jump across a river at a arbitrarily chosen point after winding along the edge of the river, stepping in mushy spots and falling over tufts of dried grasses/avoiding thistles. Luckily we reached the camp shortly thereafter and they had lunch ready for us (or at least tea). They had set up a tent for us as well as a picnic table-ish area covered in a masai cloth. After lunch we set up our sleeping bags and mats (borrowed from Cyrus and Christina- thank you!) and set things up assuming it would rain during the night.

After a short break, Elijah took us on a walk to visit the nearby sites. First we visited a waterfall. We stood at the top of the waterfall – mere feet away from our shoes – and watched the water gush over the top. The path to the bottom of the waterfall was immediately next to the waterfall – meaning if you veered off the path a few inches to the left and stepped on the soft grass that “edged” the path – you would find yourself immediately at the base of the waterfall. At one point a cedar tree that had its roots at the base of the fall was a left sided hand-hold toward the top third of the tree. We clambored down roots, back and forth along the edge, and made it to the bottom in one piece. The waterfall was so lovely with the spray moistening the surrounding foliage and making it lush. The sun was out for the time being and lighting up the greenery. Once we had taken some photos and enjoyed the scene, we scrambled back up the slope and headed to “the caves.” The pathway to the caves was also exciting but less vertical. I will mention here that Mount Kenya was originally a volcano – not currently active – so the rock is all post-lavaflow. The caves consisted of crumbling lower lava flows that were pulled out of the cliffs by water flow. One cave had a small waterfall at the back of it with a large vertical crack through the roof – we did not explore this cave for fear of falling rock. The larger cave was dry but had a huge chunk of the roof that had fallen down that now created an island in the floor of the cave. People camp in the cave as evidenced by their trash left behind as well as old burned coals. Luke and I wandered up through a crevasse in the mountain cut by a small river/waterfall and enjoyed its wind tunnel effect on our hair. We slowly made our way back to camp, enjoying the temporary sunshine warming us up.

At camp, and at various points on our trip, we met several other travelers like ourselves. There was one group of French-speaking ladies who were taking breaks from their families for a ladies weekend on Mount Kenya. They are ex-pats living in Johannesburg, South Africa that met each other through their children, who all attend a French-speaking school while their husbands work/are stationed there. They were very friendly and surprisingly loud by French-people standards, and would often provide most of my entertainment during the trip. Another couple included a pair of friends – one had a South African accent (white) but was living in a nearby town here in Kenya and her companion was a Jordanian man that was visiting her for the time being. The French ladies had a group of porters, cooks, and a guide similar to us, whereas the friend couple had just hired a guide and a porter – and were otherwise doing their own cooking etc.

After dinner but before bed, Luke and I joined our porters/cooks next to a small fire that they made to keep warm. The temperatures were likely in the 50’s. We didn’t speak Swahili so the two of us sat there for about an hour listening to the group chat without us – but everyone can appreciate a warm fire silently and we had been welcomed over by Elijah, no one seemed concerned that we were there and not participating in the conversation. The stars were out and beautiful before we went to bed.

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